978044914669950495

Praise for Gary Gottesfeld
and
BLOOD HARVEST
"Generations of madness peaking in horror. This novel
bends you to its will—chillingly."
James Ellroy
Author of The Black Dahlia
"Nr. Gottesfeld, in his second outing, is fully up to
standard."
Gerald Petievich
Author of To Live and Die in L.A.
"A page-burner, forcing the spellbound reader to rip
through paragraphs, pages, chapters, at a dizzying
speed ... If you're a Stephen Ring fan, you'll love Blood
Harvest.... Read this book!"
Marcel Montecino
Author of The Crosskiller

Also By Gary Gottesfeld
Published by Fawcett Books:
THE VIOLET CLOSET

BLOOD
HARVEST
Gary Gottesfeld
FAWCETT GOLD MEDAL • NEW YORK

A Fawcett Gold Medal Book
Published by Ballantine Books
Copyright © 1990 by Gary Gottesfeld
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copy-
right Conventions. Published in the United States by Ballantine
Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simul-
taneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, To-
ronto.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 90-90285
ISBN 0-449-14669-3
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition: December 1990

For Nancy and Adam—
The two people who keep me laughing.

Acknowledgments
My deepest appreciation to the following people:
Charles and Stuart Smith—for letting me run free in their ter-
riffic winery.
Jay Mortimer, M.D.—for teaching me about psychiatric medi-
cine.
Neal Robb—for keeping me honest about legal matters in the
book.
Doctors Gerald and Nadine Levinson—for helping me see the
humanity in the abnormal condition.
Ronald Golovan, M.D.—for showing me where the body parts
go-
Norman Lightfoot—for taking the time to burrow through old
maps.
Steve Franklin—for being Steve Franklin.

PROLOGUE

7th of September, 1772
She said her name was Claudine and that she had turned
fifteen last month.
Oh dear sweet God, the beauty of this young girl!
That body! Those long, graceful limbs! Her breasts, white and
pure like breakfast cream. The aroma of her skin, so damp and
pungent.
I sit for hours watching her sleep, her thick, dark curls draped
over my pillow. I begin to think that if only this world, angry and
cruel with its frivolous wars, could be as blessed as I am tonight!
I look out the window. The night sky is turning to pewter.
It is almost time.
I hear the sound of my toenails scraping against the cool tile
as I walk out onto the patio. I lean against the balcony and look
out over the hills. The shadows of my beloved vineyards, with
their fruit hanging down from them like ripe ovaries, are beginning
to take shape in the early light. The vines and I have always been
entwined together, as if the same blood flowed through our veins.
How peaceful it is out here.
I wait until I can see the sun rising over the slopes.
It is now time.
Inside, my beautiful Claudine is still asleep, those luscious lips
slightly apart. How lovely you are! I hope you are dreaming of
me my pretty one.
I sit down beside her on the bed. My fingers stroke her neck,
lingering on the pulse under her chin, its melodic throbbing mak-
ing me hard and wet.
Lovely, lovely Claudine, I'm afraid it is now time.
I reach into the drawer of the night table and take out the nail
and mallet I keep next to the scalpel.
3

She awakens for an instant, her pale blue eyes upon my face.
The paregoric takes over once again and she slowly closes her
lids. She turns away, letting me see the back of her head. You
are making it so easy for me, sweetness. The end to a perfect
night.
I part her delicate curls. My love, I murmur, as I place the
nail lightly on the soft spot where her skull and neck merge, and
bang down forcefully with the mallet. It goes in so easily. Her
head shudders for a moment, then is still.
I am pleased. I have finally learned to avoid the arteries.
Melancholy follows, like always. Tears run down my face and
onto the sheets, mixing with her blood.
I take the scalpel out of the drawer and carry this beautiful
girl/child into the vineyards where I lay her gently down on the
moist earth.
I then mount her. In minutes it is over, which saddens me. I
must learn control! Except if the next one is as beautiful as Clau-
dine, then I don't know how I can.
The scalpel rests on the ground near her lifeless head. I do
what is needed.
Her rich blood gushes from her loins like the waters of the
Garonne River, then quickly sinks into the porous soil.
I will miss her! I shout to the swollen vineyards around me.
I will miss all of them!
Section forty-three from the journal of Baron Gustave de Montret. Trans-
lated by field agent Wilbur Striker on the 3rd of January, 1943.
—wilbur striker
Inside her modern, spacious loft on Houston Street in New
York, Maura McKinney finished reading the section of the worn
journal translated by Wilbur Striker forty-seven years ago. A
guttural sound erupted from her throat, and her body shuddered
from its contents. Over her shoulder the sharp light of the halogen
lamp pointed directly at the brittle yellow pages.
The sky outside her window was turning from cobalt blue to
ink. It was the last wave of rush hour and the loud city noises
climbed up from the street and snaked their way into her room
through the open shutters.
Her hands began to tremble as she carefully turned over the
next fragile page; beads of sweat ran from her forehead and etched
a path down her face. Even though she had read Gustave de
4

Montret's obscene manuscript many times before, it still gripped
her in its hypnotic spell.
Eventually she forced her eyes away from the pages and
glanced over to the wall clock; it was after eight. She had a dinner
appointment with Ray Scollari at eight-fifteen. Regretfiilly she
closed the diary and placed it on the coffee table.
Her head was throbbing, more than usual. She went into the
bathroom and took two lOOmg tablets of Darvocet and quickly
swallowed them down with water. After washing her face, she
looked up into the mirror and saw her pallid flesh with her lu-
minous green eyes staring back. She quickly brushed in place
the loose strands of her fine hair and put on a new coat of makeup
to hide the color of her blanched skin.
She was not looking forward to this night with Scollari. It will
be like all those other nights, she thought with disgust. He was
always asking her to meet with him at some restaurant, telling
her they had to discuss business. All he really wants to do is get
his vile, sweaty body into my bed! He '11 try plying me with drinks
while he tells me about the sex lives of judges and congressmen.
Then he '11 try to touch me with those thick fat hands. She pictured
his tan, freckled hand reaching out for her. She trembled at the
thought. She felt a hot flash of hate erupt within her body.
After locking the diary in her nightstand, she took the elevator
down to the lobby and walked the short distance to the restaurant.
If he touches me one more time with those freckled paws, I'll
kill him, she thought. Martin was the only man she ever let touch
her.
Only Martin!
Bristling with anger, she turned the corner on Houston Street.
Ray Scollari, the district attorney of Brooklyn, was just finish-
ing off his second Glenlivet on the rocks at the Greene Street
Cafe when he saw Maura enter the half-empty restaurant. He
was angry that she had kept him waiting, but as soon as he saw
how beautiful she looked, the anger drained from his body and
the longing returned. My God, how I want that woman! he
thought to himself.
The men standing around the bar, including the waiters and
the busboys, all turned their heads to follow the path her body
was taking.
She smiled at Ray as she sat down. Her blond hair, the color
5

of an Icelandic sunrise, was pulled tightly in back of her head.
"Sorry about the time, Ray. I got caught up studying a brief."
He shrugged and waved his hands, as if to say forget it. Snap-
ping his fingers, he called over the waiter and ordered Maura a
glass of chardonnay. "You look edgy. Maybe you should drink
something stronger."
She shook her head, no. "Busy day in court. I tried three
cases."
He nodded. His loins were hurting from the need of her. "You
hungry?" he asked nonchalantly, trying not to show his emotion
as he looked into her jade green eyes. Maybe after a few drinks
he'd get himself to loosen up enough to tell her how he felt. He
picked up the menus from the table and handed her one. "They
make the best damn filet mignon in the city."
"Do we need to discuss something, Ray?"
"Excuse me?"
"Why the dinner?"
"Hey, can't two tired lawyers take some time away from those
goddamn marble halls?" he said, laughing. He paused to look
into her beautiful eyes again, then he said, "Okay, I'll tell you
what's happening. I'm throwing my hat into the ring for mayor
in the spring."
"Congratulations," she said cautiously.
"I'd like you to be part of it." He reached his freckled hand
across the table to touch hers. She quickly moved back in her
seat and put her hands safely in her lap.
"In what capacity?" she asked.
"My personal assistant. You can move out of that loft in Soho
and into Gracie Mansion with me."
"I like that loft, Ray. Besides, I don't think your wife would
appreciate sharing a bathroom with me," she said caustically.
"Think about it," he replied, smiling self-assuredly. "You
can get burnt out real easy in this city being a prosecutor for the
DA's office." He began to scan his menu.
Ray ordered the steak rare and a bottle of Barolo. Maura or-
dered a vegetable dish.
Throughout dinner Ray talked about his plans, his eyes never
leaving her face. Maura tried listening, but her mind kept going
back to the weathered diary. Who was this translator, Wilbur
Striker? No, maybe it's best I don't know.
She wondered when Ray was going to make his move. Her
head was beginning to hurt again. The Darvocets weren't keep-
6

ing the pain away; nothing she took seemed to keep it away
anymore.
Over an espresso and a Sambuca, Ray made his move. "How's
your love life, kid?"
"Private, Ray."
"Maybe nonexistent?" he said with a glint of hope in his eyes.
. "Maybe." She stared directly back into his tanned face. He
always had a tan, she suddenly realized, even in winter. Can't
have your next mayor of New York looking pasty and sleazy, she
thought. Her head was throbbing now, and she wanted to slip
into the bathroom to take another Darvocet.
' '1 mean what's the story? I've known you for years . . . you 're
one of my best prosecutors. I've never seen you with a guy. Never
even heard about one."
"What's that have to do with my legal skills?"
"Nothing. Just wondering, that's all." His body moved into
the table and closer to hers.
She was feeling angry again. Her life was her business and no
one else's. The pain in her frontal lobe was now pulsating. Soon
that terrible sound of metal scraping against metal would begin
echoing in her brain. She shook her head and tried to put it from
her mind.
"I care for you a lot," he abruptly said, his lips beginning to
quiver. There was a flush to his face from the alcohol.
"It's late, Ray. I think it's time to go." She took her napkin
from her lap and put it on the table.
He looked at her sharply. "Did you hear what I said?"
"Yes. I'm not interested in being your mistress, if that's where
this conversation is heading," she said sharply. "At least this
time you didn't try hiding the real reason you asked me to din-
ner."
He leaned into the table and grabbed her arm. "I'm willing to
leave my wife for you, even during an election year. Doesn't that
mean anything?" he whispered passionately.
In spite of the pain spreading in her head, Maura had to laugh.
"You think I'm funny?" he said with an angry, hurt cast on
his face.
"Look, Ray, it's been a long day ..." She tried pulling her
arm away, but he held on tight.
His temples were twitching from indignation. Sneering, he
said, "I don't like to be laughed at, especially when I'm putting
my guts out on the line. What kind of a cunt are you?"
7

The feelings of contempt and uncontrollable rage ruptured
inside her. She twisted her arm that he was holding so that her
palm was under his wrist. Then she clamped her fingers around
his fleshy white skin and dug deeply into it with her long red
fingernails.
Ray gasped in pain. Looking down at his arm, he saw that the
nails were at least a half inch into his wrist. Blood spurted out
and stained his white shirt. He tried to pull it away, but her grip
on him was like a steel vise. The pain was horrible. "Please,"
he pleaded, looking around. He couldn't afford a scene, not this
close to the primaries. Luckily the restaurant was not crowded.
Then he turned his head back to her and saw her glacial emerald
eyes piercing into him like darts. "Let go . . . please," he whis-
pered. The hatred in her face was frightening.
Suddenly the anger drained from her body. She released Ray
and he quickly pulled his wounded arm away from the table.
Scanning the room to make sure no one was watching, he
wrapped a napkin around his bloodied wrist. "You're crazy,"
he hissed at her. After a beat he fixed his tie and jacket with his
good hand, then said, "You know, come to think of it, I don't
know shit about your life. Who the hell are you anyway? Why
am I breaking my balls over some fruitcake like you? Well, maybe
it's time I found out who you are. When I do, pray you have a
clean slate, kid."
Maura hated that wily smile of his. He usually wore it when
he was reducing a witness for the defense into a mass of pum-
meled jelly. She got up from the table and stormed out of the
restaurant, ignoring the stares from the men at the bar.
As she walked down the street, all she could remember was
the white hate she felt for Scollari. Suddenly the metal sounds
that she feared most began to awaken in her head. Christ, what
is happening to me? she thought to herself, frightened. I could
have killed him!
Maura tried to sleep that night, but what she had done to
Scollari wouldn't leave her thoughts. She had always possessed
this incredible strength, but she always managed to keep it under
control. It was nearly one in the morning and she was far from
tired. At least her terrible headache had eased to a distant throb-
bing.
Trying to get her mind off what happened earlier tonight, she
shut her eyes and thought about her dear friend Rena, whom she
8

hadn't seen in years. At last they would be getting together again
when she goes to Northern California tomorrow. Next she thought
about Uncle Wiggly and how he would throw his arms around
her when he saw her. These were good thoughts and Maura
smiled at them.
Then that cursed journal of Baron Gustave de Montret entered
her head and the smile faded. She had known about that diary
ever since she was a child living in Napa. While playing alone
in her attic, she came across it hidden away in an old trunk. She
had only looked at the first few "sections," but what she read
had so disturbed her that she never told her father or anyone else
about her discovery. Why had her father kept the diary? She never
understood the reason for that. Then last year, while on her an-
nual trip back to her house in the Napa Valley, she rediscovered
the journal again in the desk drawer of her father's deserted win-
ery. Perhaps she should have destroyed it then. Instead, she
brought it back with her to New York. Now it was too late; she
could never destroy it, not after having read the last entry. Some-
thing terrible bound her to that evil man, Baron Gustave.
And Maura knew what that something was; the last entry that
the baron made in the diary clearly stated it. My God, what if
somebody finds it? she suddenly thought.
She quickly sat up, grabbed the diary out of the nightstand,
and tore out the final pages. Making her way over to the stove,
she turned on the burner and put the pages into the flames. She
held them there until they were reduced to ashes, then she threw
the remains down the garbage disposal.
She got back into bed. It was late, and she needed to get some
sleep because she had to get up early to catch her plane. She
would take the diary back with her and return it to the desk in
the winery where she found it. Perhaps then she would be able
to sleep once more and the noises in her head would go away.
At three in the morning, she awoke to the horrible, scratching
noise of metal jingling around in her head once again.
Panicking, she threw the covers off her naked body and sat
up- Then the pounding of her heart and the fear set in, like it
always did, leaving her gasping for air, needing to breathe.
She felt her way into the bathroom. Her Soho loft was pitch-
black; the lights were off and the shutters were closed tight. She
grabbed two more Darvocets, a Parnate, and a Xanax from the
medicine cabinet, turned on the faucet and put her mouth under
it to wash down the pills. Clutching tightly onto the sink, the
9

sweat dripping down her body, she waited for the drags to kick
in.
Please God, please let me breathe! Don't let me black out
again!
Closing her eyes, Martin's face began to flash through her
mind like a psychedelic light show, and the noise of metal upon
metal got louder. She sank down to the tile floor, leaned against
the tub, and clasped her head in her hands.
Ten minutes later the medicine took effect. She slowly lifted
herself off the floor. Her naked body was soaked and shining
with sweat.
She went over to the shutters and opened them, letting the
cool night breeze pass over her shape and through her long fine
hair that reached to the curve of her back.
The dark streets were deserted, and no one could see her
standing there nude. Only the night sky was watching, and that
was all right because the night was her friend, and, like Martin,
had never passed judgment on her.
Martin ... he had also seen her standing like this . . .
except . . .
Dear Martin. How I loved you!
Maura slammed the shutters closed, along with the memories
of him.
Her eyes were hurting. She went into the bathroom and re-
moved her green-tinted contact lenses. As she looked into the
mirror, she caught a glimpse of her true-colored eyes: one was
blue and the other a deep brown.
Clean slate, Ray? If only you knew! she thought bitterly. I'm
afraid, Gustave de Montret, you and I are destined to be bound
together in hell for eternity.
10

ONE

Chapter One
^#tf ^EY' ^RENA- ^HOW you doing?"
11 Dr. Rena Halbrook turned around in the small ter-
minal of Napa airport and looked up into the smiling, beefy face
of Sheriff Pinky Swangel. He was leaning against the US Air
ticket counter. His big belly was straining the buttons on his shirt
to the limit.
"It's been years," she said, surprised. They shook hands.
"Yep. Last time I saw you was right after high school. You
were sure a beauty back then. Still are, as a matter of fact." He
continued smiling at her as his eyes quickly scanned her body in
appreciation. ' 'I wasn't sure if I wanted to become a cop in those
days or transport stolen cars to Nevada."
She remembered him as a troublesome youth with a history
of problems. "I think this uniform looks a lot better on you than
prison blues."
He laughed, showing horsey teeth. "Pay's not as good though.
Hear you're a big-time psychiatrist now."
"A psychologist."
"Didn't know there's a difference."
"Pay's not as good."
Pinky laughed again.
"I'm waiting for a friend to pick me up. I guess she's not here
yet," Rena said, looking toward the entrance of the terminal.
"In fact, you know her. She grew up here. Maura McKinney."
He stopped laughing. "Yes, I know," he said somberly.
She caught his concerned look. "What's the matter?"
Pinky let out a sigh. "There's been a killing."
"Not Maura?" she said, startled.
"No. Someone else. A migrant picker who worked the fields
next to Maura's was found murdered in her vineyards. I was
13

hoping she'd be here at the airport waiting for you. That's why I
came." His eyes scanned the terminal as he talked.
"In her vineyard?" she said alarmed.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Yep," he mut-
tered finally, nodding his head.
"What happened?" she asked.
Pinky sighed again. "Why don't we have some coffee," he
said, pointing to the quick food stand. "Let's give her a couple
of minutes. Hopefully she'll show up." His voice was tense. He
picked up her suitcase in his fleshy hand, walked over to the
counter, and ordered two coffees.
Rena sat down at the formica table. Why did Pinky hope she d
show up? Was there a reason why she wouldn't? She could feel
Pinky's apprehension, even though he was trying not to show it.
His dad used to work in her father's winery as a presser. Pinky
would also work there sometimes after school, packing the car-
tons for delivery. She remembered him as a chunky, oversized
boy with a thick neck and blotchy pink skin that always seemed
to be peeling around the nose. The kids nicknamed him' 'Pinky"
because of his coloring and the tag stayed with him. Most people
had long forgotten his real name. Rena realized that he looked
exactly the same now as he did then, except even larger.
Pinky brought the coffees to the table and sat down. He let out
a long breath, as if his lungs were too small to supply enough
oxygen to such an oversized body. After pouring a large quantity
of sugar into his cup, he said, "The body of this Mex, Tomas
Sanchez, was discovered a couple of hours ago tied to a grape-
vine on Maura's property."
She grasped his arm. "Talk to me, Pinky. What's going on?"
"Relax," he said patting her hand. "I'm sure Maura's okay.
Some nut killed this Mex . . . slit his throat, then tied him to the
branches of a vine. He probably got into a fight with another
worker over money or . . . ," he said the next words softly,
"... maybe a woman. You never know what can set these peo-
ple off. The dead guy was drunker than hell, I can tell you that.
He stunk from tequila. We're questioning all the pickers who
worked the vineyards with him. There's always a killing of some
kind every year when the field hands get some money and a few
drinks in them. This murder was a little stranger than most, that's
all."
She watched him stir his coffee. He looked deep in thought
14

and his eyes were red from lack of sleep. "How was it strange?"
she asked.
"Well, first of all, he was only wearing his underwear when
we found him. Then it's the way he was tied to the vine. It was
made to look just like a crucifixion. I've seen Mex's with their
throats cut before, but not like this. There was also a lot of blood,
more than usual, and there was some kind of puncture wound in
the back of his neck. Manuel Ortiz, the man who runs the winery
for Miss McKinney, discovered the body."
"And Maura . . . ?" she asked, again picking up on Pinky's
uneasiness.
"I don't know," he said, chewing on the plastic coffee stirrer,
his eyes glued to the entrance of the terminal. "Manuel told us she
had arrived at the house yesterday, a little before sundown."
Rena knew this was true. When Maura phoned her last week,
she told her that she would be coming up on Thursday. "Wasn't
she at the house?"
He looked down at the table and shook his head.
Something was very wrong, she could feel it. "How did you
know she was planning to meet me at the airport?"
"I found her appointment book in her bedroom. Manuel let
us in. I took the liberty of going through it and saw your name
with the time and flight number of your plane."
She looked at him and saw how distraught he was. "What's
going on, Pinky? Come on, tell me," she said, touching his arm.
"I don't know, honestly I don't," he said, forcing a smile.
She could see he was lying. "Don't hand me that. Why did
you go through her purse? Something tells me you knew she
wasn't going to show up here."
"I was just kind of hoping she would, that's all." Again the
long release of air. "Okay, I just didn't want to worry you, not
until the facts were in. Her bed wasn't slept in last night, and her
rental car was still parked outside her house."
"When was this man murdered?" Her face was white.
Another long intake of air, then, "Early this morning or some-
time last night. I'm gonna have to wait for the coroner's report
on that." He looked away from her face.
"Did Manuel spend the night at the house?" Rena knew that
Manuel and his family stayed at the house and ran Maura's wine
business while she worked as an assistant district attorney in New
York.
"Uh-huh. Manuel left yesterday, right after she arrived. He
15

wasn't even supposed to be at the winery this morning. He was
on his way to Mexico with his family when he had to turn around
because his wife forgot her arthritis medicine."
"Then she was alone at the house last night?" Rena was be-
ginning to fear for Maura's safety.
"I don't know about last night. She certainly was alone when
Manuel left yesterday around sunset."
Rena rubbed her eyes, then said in a troubled voice, "You
think something has happened to her, don't you?"
"No way," he replied, shaking his head, attempting to laugh
off her uneasiness.
Rena didn't believe him.
"Give it a couple of minutes, maybe she'll show up here,"
he said, slouching down in the seat. His eyes stayed on the re-
volving doors and he nervously tapped the chewed stirrer on the
table.
They waited a few minutes longer, then decided she wasn't
going to show and left.
In the parking lot, he offered to drive her back to her father's
summer home in the Alexander Valley.
"Tell you what," she said, getting in the front seat of the
Bronco. "If it's all right with you, I'd rather go to Maura's house
and see if she came back."
He thought about it for a minute, saw the concern on her face,
then said,' 'Why not. You two have been friends for a long time.''
"That's right," she whispered.
They drove through the lush countryside in silence. Rena was
concerned. Both women had known each other since they were
ten years old. Maura lived in Napa, and Rena spent her summers
here when she was a child. Rena's father, Simon Halbrook,
among his other business interests, owned one of the largest
wineries in the area.
The last time Rena saw Maura McKinney was when they went
to Greece together; that was over thirteen years ago. This was
supposed to have been a reunion for both of them.
There was also another reason that Rena came up here today:
she needed to take some time off from her affair with Charlie so
that she could sort out her emotions.
Charles Halleran was her lover, and recently their relationship
was beginning to come apart at the seams. When she first met
him, he was an unemployed journalist on a self-collision course.
He blamed himself for failing to see his ex-wife's descent into
16

the madness that eventually led to hJs daughter's murder. Years
of self-flagellation followed with too many drunken nights and
failed jobs. Redemption came when he met Rena. They fell in
love. Wanting' to help Charlie get back on his feet, she called a
friend, the owner of the L.A. Tribune. Charlie was offered a job
as a foreign correspondent. Ironically, his immediate success
with the newspaper was the major cause of their present prob-
lems: they were so busy working at their professions that little
time was left for their relationship; the intimacy they once shared
was dying from lack of nourishment.
"You know, I listen to your radio show every time I get a
chance," Pinky said, trying to break the stillness between them.
"Really enjoy it. That psychological advice you give to those
callers, it even helps me, although I won't admit it to the guys
on the force."
"Thanks, but I'm only supposed to be heard in Los Angeles
and the local vicinity. How do you get it?"
"01' Suzy here," he said, patting the shortwave radio at-
tached to the dashboard of his car. "Keeps me from going crazy
from boredom. Nothing ever happens around her except breaking
up an occasional fight, or when a yuppie from the city who's
been to too many wine tastings wraps his Mercedes around a
pole."
Pinky then began to reminisce about the days when Rena used
to spend her summers in Napa; how half the local teenage boys
had crushes on her and the other half on Maura.
"Which half did you belong to?" she asked.
Pinky grinned sheepishly. "I'll take that secret with me to my
grave."
Rena could see the answer in his face. His eyes lit up every
time he mentioned Maura's name. Pinky clenched his jaw and
ground his teeth. She knew Maura's disappearance was taking a
bigger toll on him than he was letting on.
She began to speculate about Maura being alone in that house
while a murder was taking place right outside her door. Pinky
said the dead man had been drinking and that he and his com-
panion could have been fighting over a woman. I hope Maura
wasn't that woman, Rena thought.
"Remember Martin Bynum?" he asked her.
' 'Yes, a tragedy,'' she answered, breaking out of her thoughts.
"No one to this day knows who killed him. A damn waste of
a life. He had everything going for him. Looks, brains . . . even
^fl

had Maura. She wouldn't let any other guy get near her except
him." His voice was sad, tinged with bitterness.
Rena remembered clearly. It happened the day of Maura's
seventeenth birthday. Her father had thrown a big party for her.
Yes, it was a waste of a good life. Martin was always so sensible,
so pragmatic—not like most of the kids up here. He had a schol-
arship to Stanford and wanted to study project management in
architecture. He always had a thing for Maura, and she felt the
same way about him. In fact, there was never any other man in
her life, except Martin. Rena thought about the birthday party
and how Martin and Maura tried to sneak out of her house.
Everybody there knew where Martin was taking her and what
they were going to do. They were going off to the stone winery
that belonged to Maura's dad. Later, they went back to his house
and unfortunately disturbed a burglar while he was ransacking
the upstairs bedroom. He killed Martin with a shotgun blast to
the face. Rumors began to spread that it was Maura's father, Peter
McKinney, and not a robber who really murdered him. Everyone
knew that he hated Martin and that he had forbidden his daughter
to see him. It could never be proven because a month after Mar-
tin's death, McKinney, while drunk, died in an automobile ac-
cident.
Pinky drove through the towns of Yountville and Oakville,
then into St. Helena with its trendy restaurants and shops, and
up into the mountains.
When they came to Maura McKinney's house, they stopped.
It was a white, A-framed structure that was freshly painted. In
the vineyards located next to the house, yellow police tape was
wrapped around the vines, cordoning off a small section.
As Rena got out of the car, she held her hand up to her head
to block out the sun's glare and looked in the direction of the
vineyards. She could see police officers cutting the dead man
down from the vines.
"They're just now taking the body away? What the hell took
them so long?" Pinky said, perturbed.
They watched as they put the remains of the victim into a
plastic body bag. Two policeman then put the bag on a gurney
and rolled it in their direction, toward the ambulance.
A chill went through Rena.
An older man, holding a medical bag, trailed along beside the
gurney, giving orders to the police as they lifted the body into
the ambulance. Next to him was a much younger person, thin
18

and lanky, with fine straight hair that fell into his eyes. He walked
with his hands on his hips, fingers pointed toward the back, and
seemed to be in deep thought. He reminded Rena of an English
lord casually "•strolling through his flower garden on a Sunday
afternoon.
Rena turned around and saw Manuel standing next to his truck
over by the house. He was in his fifties and wore a denim work
shirt and dusty jeans. His heavyset wife was in the front seat,
and his two young sons were standing up on the flatbed in the
back, craning their necks, trying to get a better look at what was
happening in the vineyard.
"The guy with the white hair is Doc Frawley," Pinky said.
"I don't know if you ever met him. He has a practice in Calis-
toga. He's also the acting pathologist whenever an autopsy is
needed around here."
When the doctor saw Pinky and Rena, he went over to them.
The tall man followed, his hands still on his hips.
"Not a pretty sight," Frawley said to Pinky. He had his suit
jacket flung over his arm and he held an old-fashioned, white
Panama hat in his hand. His tie hung loosely around his yel-
lowed, frayed collar.
"No worse than some of the traffic accidents I Ve seen,'' Pinky
replied, wiping the sweat off his brow with his sleeve.
"You look familiar young lady," he said, turning away from
Pinky.
"I'm Dr. Rena Halbrook. My father owns Clarmont Winery.''
"Oh, yeah, the big one in the Alexander Valley. Your dad . . .
what's his name?"
"Simon Halbrook."
"That's it. I once took pieces of shredded glass out of his hand
when a bottle of champagne he was trying to uncork exploded.
I did it without a local anesthesia and he never once flinched."
"That's Dad," she said, nodding. She looked up at the tall
man and saw that he was staring at her.
' 'Name's Walter Parsons,'' he said.''I just bought the practice
up in Geyserville. Dr. Frawley is showing me the territory."
"Have you seen Maura McKinney yet?" Pinky asked Fraw-
ley.
"Not yet," he said shaking his head. He also had a worried
look on his face.
"I'm going back to the office and get an APB out on her.
Something's not right," Pinky said, wiping the sweat off his thick
19

neck with a handkerchief. "Want me to drive you back?" he
asked Rena.
"It's out of your way. I'll get a ride, don't worry. Just concen-
trate on finding Maura," she said.
"I'll keep in touch, Rena. Good seeing you again. Don't fret
about Maura. We'll find her," Pinky said, as he got into his
truck and drove off.
She turned toward the older man. "Do you know Maura Mc-
Kinney, Doctor?"
"Certainly," he said. "I brought her into this world. In fact,
she was born right in that house." He pointed to the white
A-frame. "She was a month premature. Her father called me and
told me to get over here fast, that she was starting to come out.
By the time I got here, her mother was dilated ten centimeters
and the crown was showing. There was no time to get her to a
hospital." He paused for a second, thinking, then said, "If only
she could have reached full term maybe Clair would have had a
chance." His voice trailed off and his eyes became glazed, as if
he were remembering something far back.
Rena knew that Clair was Maura's mother.
"Well . . . that's another story," he said, his mind returning
to the present. "Anyway, I've got to go with the body and do the
autopsy. I don't know why I even bother. Any fool can see how
he was killed. Guarantee you we'll find a gallon of alcohol in his
blood. You coming back with me?" he said to Parsons.
"Absolutely, Doctor."
"Good." The old man put his hat on and walked slowly to
the waiting ambulance.
"Are you a good friend of Miss McKinney?" the young doc-
tor asked. He had a Bostonian accent.
"Yes," Rena said, sighing. "A very good friend." From the
corner of her eye Rena would see Manuel watching her.
"Look, maybe something unusual will turn up at the autopsy.
Do you want us to call you in case we find anything?"
Rena understood what he meant by "something unusual."
They'll check to see if the dead man recently had sex, and if all
the blood in the area was just his. "Please call me," she said.
She took a pen and a notepad from her purse and gave him the
number where she would be staying.
He took the piece of paper and put it in his jacket. "I'll call
you," he said. He turned and walked toward the ambulance.
Rena then went over to Manuel. It had been years since she
20

last saw him, and he looked older and paunchier. He began work-
ing for the McKinneys when he was a young man fresh from the
Sonora countryside—first for Maura's father then for Maura. He
started out as a grape picker in their vineyards and eventually
became the foreman. When Maura's father died and she inherited
the winery, she asked Manuel to stay on to care for the vineyards.
Maura wanted to live in New York and had no interest in making
pinot noirs and cabernets. She closed down the stone winery and
had Manuel grow grapes to sell to other wineries. The profit she
netted helped supplement her living expenses in New York.
"Remember me, Manuel?" Rena said.
"Of course I remember you. You are Senorita Maura's good
friend." He warmly shook hands with her.
His wife, Elvera, got out of the truck, went over to Rena, and
hugged her. "It has been so long!" she said in a thick Mexican
accent.
"Too long," Rena said, looking at how white her hair had
gotten. Elvera used to make wonderful tamales and would give
her a bag filled with them to take back to her father's estate. She
would have to sneak them into her room because Elaine Hal-
brook, her mother, would never allow that kind of "peasant"
food in the house.
Rena turned to Manuel and saw the fear in his eyes.
"Please, Senorita Halbrook," he whispered. "I must talk with
you alone. I am very worried."
"Have you talked to the police?"
"No police!" he said, frantically shaking his head. "Please,
no police."
She glanced toward the police who were still in the vineyards,
then back at him. "What is it?" she asked him, hearing the
urgency in his voice.
"Come with me, senorita," Manuel said to her.
Before she could react, he was behind the house and walking
quickly toward the field in the opposite direction of the vineyards.
His children and wife stayed by the truck.
She could barely keep up with him. Rena was dressed in high
heels and a skirt, and the thick, spiny bushes were shredding her
nylons and scratching her legs. Then they were in the woods, the
lush greenery on top of the trees almost screening out the sun-
light. They continued into the forest for more than two hundred
yards until they reached a small hot spring partially hidden by a
clump of bushes. The water looked fresh and clean.
21

"Over here, Senorita Halbrook," Manual said, bending down
next to the water. He was separating the grass with his fingers.
Rena knelt next to him and saw what he was looking at. Blood.
A small thin trail of it zigzagging for about five yards then stop-
ping abruptly.
"What about this, Manuel?"
"This is the place that Maura always comes to when she stays
at the house. She bathes in this pond. She's been doing that ever
since she was a little girl. The water is salty and hot, and she
says it is good for her skin."
Rena never knew about the spring and found it strange that
Maura had never told her about it when they were children.
"Manuel, the blood is probably that of a small animal, most
likely a bird—killed and eaten by a cat or a coyote. Next to my
home, I find trails of blood like this all the time, and I live in a
big city," she said.
Manuel stared at the blood for a long time. She could almost
feel his mind racing. Then he looked at her and said softly, "I
don't think so, senorita." He pulled up the bottom right cuff of
his jeans and took out something from inside his scuffed cowboy
boot. It was covered in a red bandanna. Carefully he opened part
of it up, revealing the bone handle of a hunting knife.
Manuel said, "I picked it up by the pond when I first came
looking for her earlier today after I found the man in the vineyard.
I give her this knife many years ago to take with her when she
comes here to bathe. She always stays alone in the house and you
never know what kind of locos would come around if they knew
that." He grabbed the hilt and slid the knife out of the bandanna.
The blade was crusted over with fresh blood.
"I don't think this is the blood of a bird, Senorita Rena," he
said, holding the copper-colored blade up for her to see. "Do
you?"
22

Chapter Two
&ou should have shown this to the police," Rena said
JL angrily.
"I don't think so," Manuel said pensively as he slowly shook
his head. He wrapped the bandanna carefully around the knife
and stuck it back in his boot.
She grabbed his arm. "Listen to me. It may be Maura's blood
that's on that knife."
"Or maybe it is not."
She understood his meaning and thought about the man mur-
dered in the vineyard across the way. Scanning the area, she saw
horseflies swarming around the bloody section of grass. The
blood is fresh or the flies would not be here, she thought.' 'Whose
blood is on the knife, Manuel? Do you know?"
He turned his eyes from her, not answering.
"The worker who was killed from the winery next door?"
Frustrated by his stubbornness, she slapped hard at a horsefly
that was busily circling her dark, damp hair.
He shrugged.
"You think Maura may have slit his throat? Why?" she asked
skeptically.
"It is her knife," he said, touching the place in his boot where
the blade was. Deep lines were etched in his leathery Aztec skin.
"Perhaps she was protecting herself. That's what it was to be
used for. Maybe that man knew about the spring and was waiting
for her. She swims here without a suit and she is a belleza, Se-
norita Rena."
"I know she's very beautiful, Manuel," Rena said patiently.
"Why would she carry him all the way back to the field and tie
him to a vine, making it look like a crucifixion? If she was
attacked and had killed the man in self-defense, she would have
called the police, we both know that." Besides, she thought,
23

Maura couldn't possibly have had the strength to carry him all
the way back to the vineyard. Even if she tried dragging him that
distance, the bloody trail should have continued to the winery
and not have stopped so abruptiy after a few feet. "I am going
to call the police, Manuel," she said firmly. "They should know
about the knife. The blood on it could be Maura's." She turned
around and walked back to the house. Rena was enraged that he
had hidden the knife from them. In his mind he was protecting
Maura, but what he had really done was waste precious time in
finding out what happened to her. What did the killer do with
Maura after murdering the man and hanging him on the vine?
Did he also kill her, or is she still alive and in his hands? The
alternatives were not too encouraging, she realized grimly.
As she neared the house, she saw the police and a forensics
expert studying the area around the vine where the victim was
tied. She thought about telling them about the bloody knife; in-
stead she opted to talk to Pinky Swangel.
She picked up the phone in the living room and called the
sheriff's department. When they told her Pinky was still in tran-
sit, she demanded to be patched through. Several seconds of
static, then she heard his voice.
"You stay right where you are," he said, after she told him
about the knife and the bloody section of grass. "I'll be there in
ten minutes."
Outside an engine was starting up, then the squeal of tires.
Rena glanced out the window. Manuel's truck was racing down
the dirt road with his two sons bouncing in the back, holding on
for life.
"Oh, Christ! He's leaving."
"That's okay," Pinky said calmly. "I'm on the Santa Rosa
end of the mountain. That's where he's heading to meet up with
the rest of his family. I'll be waiting for him."
After he hung up, Rena called for a cab to pick her up.
While waiting, she looked around the living room and won-
dered what had happened here last night. Was that Maura's blood
on the knife and on the grass by the spring? "Please, let it not
be!" she anxiously said to herself.
None of this made sense. A couple of hours ago she had gotten
off a plane eagerly looking forward to spending the weekend with
her childhood friend. Suddenly a man is found dead in her fields
and she's missing, perhaps also murdered.
Rena looked around the room. It had been a long time since
24

she'd been inside this house. She could almost hear the walls
echoing with her and Maura's youthful laughter as they skipped
from room to room.
The furniture was the same as she remembered, except more
run-down. Now that Manuel and his family lived here, the house
had taken on a Mexican flavor, with colorful wall hangings and
old sepia photographs of Latinos in sombreros. Rena went up
the stairs and walked into Maura's old bedroom.
Pinky was right: It was obvious that Maura had not slept here
last night; she hadn't even unpacked yet. Her suitcase was on the
bed with most of her belongings still in it.
Draped over the chair, next to the desk, was an expensive
skirt, a silk shirt, bra, and panties. Probably what she wore on
the plane. Manuel said she doesn't wear a bathing suit when she
goes to the spring. Did the murdered man and the killer come
upon her while she swam naked? God, I hope not!
On the desk, Rena saw Maura's black date book, the one that
Pinky had told her about. She picked it up and flipped through
it. Maura's familiar handwriting was all over the pages. It seemed
like almost every hour of her workdays were filled with appoint-
ments. She was a busy woman, Rena thought. When she came
to today's date, she saw, meet rena at airport. It was writ-
ten in large caps across the page and underlined. Two days before
that, printed in bold, red letters, was a dinner appointment with
Ray Scollari. Rena remembered Maura mentioning that Ray was
her boss and that she wasn't too fond of him.
Rena turned the page. The only thing written on it was, "Un-
cle Wiggly at 2:00 P.M." That would be tomorrow.
Who was Uncle Wiggly? As far as she knew, Maura had no
living relatives. Was Uncle Wiggly a nickname for a person that
lived in Napa, or was someone coming here to meet her?
The rest of the weekend in Maura's calendar was blank. Rena
flipped through earlier dates. The thing she noticed was that her
days may have been busy, but there was nothing filled in for her
nights. Didn't she go out to dinner or to plays and movies with
friends? What about dates with men? In fact, other than Martin
Bynum, Maura had never mentioned any other man in her life.
Whenever Rena brought up that subject during their infrequent
phone conversations Maura would immediately talk about some-
thing else.
She put the date book back on the table, then picked up Mau-
ra's cosmetic bag. Inside, there was the usual: eyeliner, blush,
25

lipstick, nail polish. She pushed them aside, looked deeper intd
the bag, and found a large, unlabeled vial filled with different
colored pills. Rena unscrewed the cap and emptied the contents
on the bed. As a psychologist, she was very familiar with them:
Parnate, Xanax, and Darvocet. She knew the first one was an
antidepressant, and that Darvocet was normally prescribed for
pain, such as migraines. Xanax was mainly used for tension and
panic disorders. She was surprised. Was Maura suffering from
depression or from some form of psychotic disorder? Why didn't
she ever tell her? Perhaps she didn't want anyone to know.
After putting the tablets back into the vial, she looked for
Maura's purse. It wasn't in the bedroom.
She went over to the window, pulled open the lace curtain,
and looked out. The sky was clear and it was unseasonably warm.
She could almost smell the thick aroma of grapes ripening on
the vines.
We've known each other since we were ten years old, except
we haven't seen each other since Greece. Phone calls on birth-
days were exchanged and an occasional letter, but that's not the
same thing as being together. People change. What is she like
now? She was beginning to realize that there were many things
about Maura that she didn't know anything about.
As children, they only saw each other during the summer
months because Rena went to a private school back East. Their
friendship had more to do with a natural deep affection they felt
for each other than the amount of time they had actually spent
together.
Staring out at the vineyards, Rena thought back to that after-
noon over twenty years ago when they first met.
It was hot, and the migrant workers were laboring to pick the
grapes before they rotted in the sun. Rena wanted to help, but
her father's vintner, with his French accent, told her to stay out
of the way.
She walked to the top of the hill and sat down on the grass.
With her knees crossed and her face cupped in her hands, she
watched them work. From this height, they reminded her of busy
insects scurrying about. As the grapes were being crushed and
de-stemmed, she could see the workers pouring quantities of
sulphur dioxide into the vat. How it must burn their eyes, she
thought. She could even smell the pungent gas way up here.
"Ugh. Stinky poo," she said out loud, holding her nose.
26

"It's a necessary evil," someone said, directly behind her.
Rena turned around and looked up into the most beautiful,
silken face she had ever seen. The girl was about the same age
as she was, and her emerald eyes seemed to glow with intelli-
gence. Her golden mane, as fine as angel hair draped over a
Christmas tree, was braided and ran down the length of her back.
Look at that skin! Rena thought; it was so pale that you could
almost see through it. The girl wore a flowered dress that was
threadbare, and she was shoeless.
She plopped down next to Rena, crossed her legs like her, and
said, "Sulfur dioxide serves many purposes in wine making. It
kills those invisible, ugly things called microorganisms, it stops
the enzymes in grapes from browning, and it also stops the bad
effect that air can have on wine.''
"I know that," Rena said defensively.
"No you don't. You don't know anything about wine. I can
tell," the girl said confidently. "You're rich and your father built
this huge winery only last year. This is his first vintage."
Rena took offense to that. "So what? My father knows every-
thing there is to know about wine. He's an expert. If you've ever
read any of the magazines you'd know that."
The girl laughed. "Your daddy might know how to swiggle it
around in his mouth, but he doesn't know anything about grow-
ing grapes. You have to live on the land and work it with your
own hands—that's what my father says. Your daddy lives in the
city and hires some joker from France to do the work for him.
The soil and the weather are different there than it is here."
Rena was furious. "How come your father knows so much,
huh?"
"Because we have a winery. He makes the best cabernet in
the entire valley. If you read the magazines, you'd know that."
"Then what are you doing here? This is my property," Rena
shouted back, standing up.
The girl sighed, then said with a poised voice, "My daddy's
down there working in your father's winery. Our vineyards are
too small to be the only source of income. He hires himself out
every year to other wineries after he finishes harvesting his own
fields."
Rena gloated. "Then your father can't know that much can
he?"
The sparkling, perceptive eyes of the girl filled with hurt, and
Rena felt a pang of remorse for what she had said. Rena turned
27

away and ran down the hill toward the big winery, leaving the
pretty girl with the blond hair sitting by herself on the grass.
When she reached the bottom, she turned around to see if she
was still there. She was. The sun was directly in back of the girl's
head, giving the illusion that her golden hair was on fire. Rena
also swore that the sun in the background acted like an X-ray
machine, and that she could see the blood vessels and facial
bones through her opaque skin. The glare made her eyes burn.
She turned away and ran into her father's winery.
That evening, the maid came to Rena's room and said she had
a phone call.
"Hi, my name's Maura McKinney," the voice said on the
other end of the line.
Rena knew who she was by her authoritative voice. "I'm Rena
Halbrook.'' She didn't understand why but she was glad that she
called.
"I know who you are. Made any friends up here yet?"
Rena shrugged. "Maybe. Why?"
"Well, I haven't made many friends, either, and I've lived
here all my life. You don't seem dumb like the other kids from
around here. Think maybe we could try to be friends?"
Rena shrugged again. "Maybe," she answered cautiously.
"Good. We could have a trial run. Maybe we'll do better than
we did this morning."
"What are the guys like up here?" Rena asked sheepishly.
"Mostly farmers with dirty ears. I hate dirty ears on boys,
don't you? Except there's this one boy named Martin. Hands off
that one, okay?"
"Sure," she said shrugging.
"Want to come over for lunch tomorrow? Maybe we could
have a picnic or something. You need to have a car to get over
here, though. Can you get a ride?"
"Of course. My daddy's rich, remember?" There was silence
on the line, and again Rena regretted what she said. "Is your
mom going to be there?"
"Nope."
"Does she work in the wineries, also?"
"Nope. She's dead," Maura said curtly. She gave Rena the
address. "Do you have pictures of your family and friends with
you up here?"
"Yes," Rena said, surprised.
"Bring them with you. See you tomorrow, okay?"
28

The next day Simon Haibrook's foreman dropped Rena off at
Maura's house. She had brought along her Monopoly set and a
photograph album.
Maura greeted her at the door with a warm smile. She had
shoes on this time, and her dress, though made of a cheap cotton
cloth, was brand-new. Rena knew she wore it to impress her.
Inside the house, Rena could see a dark-skinned, thick-bodied
woman peeking uneasily out at her from the kitchen. She wore
a scarf over her head, and she had a black mole coated with fuzzy
hairs on her upper lip. When Rena smiled at her, she looked
away and quickly moved out of view, back into the dark recess
of the room.
"Who's that?" she curiously asked.
"Her name is Semra. She's my father's housekeeper. Don't
waste your smiles on her. She's one mean Turk and she doesn't
speak any English." It was obvious that Maura didn't like her.
"Daddy promises that when I'm older he'll send her back to
Turkey. That day can't be soon enough for me."
They made a picnic of tuna fish sandwiches, Oreo cookies,
and Pepsis, and ate under an oak tree near the vineyard. Then
they stretched out on the grass, letting the sun warm their faces
and chattered away about boys, school, and books. Maura was
so bright and animated, and exuded such spirit that Rena was
completely drawn to her. Two hours later, after a long discourse
on how teaching Silas Mamer in school can turn anyone off from
reading novels, Maura suddenly changed the subject, turned to
her, and eagerly asked to see Rena's photograph album.
She painstakingly went through every picture asking many
questions about who all these people were in Rena's life. Rena
was thrilled that this girl, her new friend, genuinely cared.
"You're sure this isn't boring you?" Rena asked her, wonder-
ing if she was talking too much about herself.
"No, no. I love hearing about other people's lives. I can ac-
tually put myself in these pictures if I try hard," she responded.
"Tell me more. Who's this? She's beautiful." Maura pointed to
a black-and-white print of a young woman who looked very rich.
She was wearing an evening dress and had a cigarette holder and
a martini glass in one hand.
"My mother," Rena said with a trace of sadness.
Maura picked up on it. She furrowed her brow and asked,
"Don't you get along with her?"
"We're just different, that's all."
29

"At least you have a mother," Maura said sighing. "I wish I
had one."
"What happened to her?" Rena asked. "She must have been
beautiful like you."
"She died when I was born," Maura said, biting down on her
lip.
Rena sat up on the grass. "Do you have a picture of her? I'd
love to see what she looked like."
Maura shrugged and turned the page of the album. "No. My
father doesn't believe in keeping photographs around the house."
"Aren't you curious?"
"Of course," she said. "Wait, I'll be right back."
Maura stood up and went into her house. A minute later she
came back with a sketch pad and pieces of charcoal. "Let me
show you what I consider to be my album," she said, excited.
She turned the cover of the spiral-bound pad over to the first
illustration. It was a delicately painted watercolor of a beautiful
woman with blond hair and pale green eyes. The lips were the
same as Maura's. Rena knew that it was a drawing of her mother.
"Did you do this?" Rena asked in awe.
"Yes. It's my mother."
"How do you know what she looked like if you don't have
any photographs of her?"
"I don't. I just imagined her looking like this."
"Does your father think there's a likeness?"
Maura looked away from her. "He hasn't seen it," she said
coldly.
"Why not?"
' 'Because this is what I want her to look like, and I don't want
him to tell me I'm wrong, that she didn't look like this at all,"
she uttered. Changing the subject once again, she blurted out,
"I want to draw you, is that okay?"
"You really can do that, huh?" Rena asked, impressed.
"Sure." She turned over the pages in the pad, showing Rena
drawings of her father. Then she came to several illustrations of
a thin, beautiful boy with long curly hair. All the drawings were
precise, with great care given to muscular detail and skeletal
structure.
"Gosh, you're good," Rena said.
"Thanks." She told Rena to sit next to the tree.
"Hey, who's the cute boy in those drawings?" Rena inquired,
giggling.
30

Maura blushed. "That's Martin, the one I told you about."
"The hands-off one, right?"
"Right." Staring at Rena then down at the pad, her fingers
holding the charcoal busily moved across the paper.
"He's a dream."
"Isn't he though?" Maura said proudly.
They both started to giggle.
Hours passed by quickly. They were so involved with what the
other was saying that time had no meaning. It was as if a cocoon
had been spun around both of them, and everybody and every-
thing ceased to exist.
At five o'clock, their magnetic contact was shattered by the
front door slamming shut.
"It's Daddy," Maura said, startled. She quickly closed her
drawing pad and hid it under the blanket.
Peter McKinney walked out on the back porch and looked
around. He was a tall man with a stooped back that was formed
from years of working in the vineyards. His sleeves were rolled
up, exposing muscular arms covered with grape stains and rice
hulls. When he saw Rena and his daughter sitting under the tree,
his face darkened to a scowl.
"Who are you?" he snapped at her in an Irish brogue.
"Her name's Rena, Daddy. Her father owns the winery you
work in." She stood up and moved in front of Rena, almost as
if to protect her.
"Ah, so that's who you are." His voice softened slightly.
"What time are you supposed to be home, young lady?" His
eyes, black as oil, peered into her.
Rena stood up and shrugged. "Soon, I guess." Glancing
quickly at Maura, she could see her friend's body trembling with
fear.
"Can she stay for dinner, Daddy? Please," Maura pleaded.
At first he looked Rena up and down, then he said, "Let her
call home. If it's okay with her parents, she can stay."
Rena called and talked with her parents' housekeeper, Anna.
She said it was all right. Thankfully her mother was away vaca-
tioning someplace in Europe. She would never approve of her
having dinner with such poor people, especially if she knew
Maura's father worked for them in their winery.
While washing their hands at the sink before sitting down at
the table, Maura whispered to Rena, "Don't mention Martin to
my father or that I have his pictures."
31

Rena turned to her, saw the beseeching look on Maura's face,
and nodded.
During dinner, Maura and Rena talked nonstop. Peter Mc-
Kinney didn't say anything. He just sat there slowly sipping a
glass of whiskey and listened to them. His elbows were up on
the table and his chin rested on top of his hands. There was a
gleam in his eyes. Rena could tell, even through his frowning
stare, that he was proud of his daughter.
After dessert of banana cream pie, Mr. McKinney drove Rena
home. Most of the time in the car was spent in silence. Rena
wracked her brain trying to think of something to say to him,
wishing that Maura had come with them.
After twenty minutes of listening to nothing but the steady
hum of the car's engine, she blurted out the first thing that came
into her mind. "I'm sorry that your wife died, Mr. McKinney."
As soon as she said it, she wished she hadn't; she could see the
sorrow in his face from the headlights of the passing cars.
Several minutes of more silence, then he said softly, "It was
a long time ago. Did Maura tell you how she died?"
"Uh-huh."
"She died while giving birth to her. Her heart just gave out.
There was no way to save her."
"I'm sorry," Rena whispered.
"The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, isn't that right?"
McKinney said sarcastically. "He took away a beautiful wife and
gave me a beautiful daughter in return. At least I'm grateful for
that," he said, not bothering to hide the mockery in his voice.
Rena saw the bitterness in his face and could smell the strong
odor of alcohol on his breath. She wondered if he was angry at
Maura because he lost his wife during childbirth. Maybe what
he really wanted was a son. Whatever the reason, Rena didn't
think it was fair. She was sorry that his wife died, but Maura
was a wonderful, special person and Mr. McKinney should be
able to see that.
He pulled into the driveway of the big house. As Rena got out
of the car, he gently grabbed her shoulder, and said softly, "She
likes you a lot, you know. She doesn't like many people, but she
likes you. Be good to her and don't hurt her. She may come on
strong and cocksure of herself, but under that fine skin lies a soul
that's very fragile."
She looked at him and saw pain in his eyes. Taken back by it,
32

she said,' 'I like her, too, Mr. McKinney, and I would never hurt
her."
As if an agreement had been reached between them, McKin-
ney nodded, then drove away.
The two girls were together almost every day that summer.
The only exception was when Maura wanted to be alone with
Martin. Sometimes Rena would feel jealous about Martin taking
her friend away from her, but there was little she could do about
it. When Maura was with Martin, nothing else seemed to exist.
Rena and Maura would often go to a deserted area in the Napa
mountains, and Maura would draw her.
Once, when they were alone in the woods, Maura asked Rena
to take off her clothes so she could sketch her like Michelangelo
first sketched the model who was his David. At first Rena re-
fused, saying that she was ashamed of her skinny, sticklike body.
Besides, if anyone found out, she would just die.
"Don't be a goose," Maura grimaced. "You're going to have
a beautiful body when you get older. I promise no one's going
to see these drawings except you and me."
Eventually Rena relented. She was embarrassed at first, but
after a while it felt natural lying naked in the grass.
"Have you ever drawn Martin in the buff?" Rena asked her
during one of their sessions in the woods.
"Uh-huh, lots of times," Maura responded. She was sketch-
ing Rena, who was posing like a naked forest nymph sitting on
a boulder.
Rena giggled, stamping her foot on the ground. "You didn't!"
"Yes, I did. Now stay still."
She went back to posing. "Where are the drawings?"
' 'In my room hidden away. If my father sees them, I'm dead.''
"Has Martin ever seen you naked?"
A hint of a smile broke on her lips. "Yes," Maura said even-
tually. "Sometimes we go swimming together in this secret place
I know."
"You have!" she gasped, starting to giggle again. "Did you
guys ever touch?"
"Sure, but that's all. One day, when we're older, we'll do the
other thing."
"How come Martin never comes to your house?"
A shadow crossed Maura's face. "My father doesn't like me
being with him."
"Why?"
33

"He's overprotective with me, that's why," she quickly re-
sponded. "I wish he was born in this country instead of Ireland.
Your father at least leaves you alone.''
"Yes, too much," Rena said quietly.
"You're lucky. I wish I was lucky." There was anger in her
voice.
When Rena was getting ready to go back to Los Angeles at
the end of the summer, Maura gave her the nude drawings of
herself. She folded them up and put them in the bottom of her
suitcase.
Rena then got into the limousine with Anna, the housekeeper,
and began to cry.
' 'What is it, child?'' the woman said in her West Indies accent,
putting her thin, black arm around Rena's shoulder.
' 'I'm going to miss her very much, Anna. We became so close
over the summer."
The frail old woman patted her shoulder and said, "You're
young, child. You two will have a lot of summers of good play in'
ahead of you."
Anna was right, Rena thought as she continued to stare out
the window. They did have many years of good playing together.
Rena heard the taxi honking outside.
Yes, she did mention the hidden spring to me, Rena suddenly
remembered. That's the place she and Martin must have gone
swimming. She took another look around Maura's bedroom then
went downstairs. There was no reason to wait to hear from Pinky.
She knew he'd call after he caught up with Manuel.
The Alexander Valley was beautiful this time of year; even
though the weather was warm, it was still fall, and the leaves
were beginning to turn colors.
Rena thought about what Peter McKinney had asked of her
that first night when she met him: Be good to her and don t hurt
her. She had kept that promise to him; she had never done any-
thing to hurt Maura.
It had been years since she last saw Maura, but when they
spoke on the phone last week, it was as if no time had passed at
all. That cocoon they once shared between them was just as fresh
as the day it was first spun so many years ago in Maura's back-
yard. The nude drawings of herself were framed and hanging in
her house in Brentwood.
After those childhood summer days up in the wine country,
34

their lives began to take different turns. Rena went to college up
in Stanford, received her Ph.D. from USC, and had gone on to
become a successful psychologist. She now had her own radio
talk show and had written two bestselling books. In between
there was a marriage, a divorce, and Cathy, her ten-year-old
daughter.
Maura received a full scholarship from Columbia in New York.
After graduating with a B.A. in Greco-Roman history, she de-
cided to become an attorney and went on to NYU Law School.
She had no interest in producing quality wines like her father.
As far as she was concerned, the doors to Peter McKinney's big
stone winery, where the cabernets, meiiots, and pinot noirs spent
years aging in oak casks, were to be closed and padlocked for-
ever.
New York agreed with Maura; it massaged her soul and fed
her intellect. She stayed on.
Rena remembered a letter she had received from her a couple
of years ago: New York, even among the garbage and the despair,
contains life. Wonderful life! Here, I can be myself. I can be
alone without feeling alone. If I had to go back to live in that
valley again with its stink of fermented grapes, I think I would
die.
There was anger and bitterness in that letter. Rena believed it
had to do with Martin's death; the memories of him were too
strong for her to stay on in Napa. What did Maura do in New
York when she wasn't working? Who were her friends? Rena
wondered. There were so many missing parts to her life.
In the distance Rena could see her father's house perched on
top of the hill like a sentinel keeping watch over the entire valley.
It was an original seventeenth-century chateau that was disas-
sembled in Saint-Emilion, France, then shipped over to this
country and reconstructed, stone by stone, by Simon. The win-
ery and his many acres of vineyards stretched as far as the eye
could see.
Even though Simon bought the best machinery and vines and
imported Europe's finest vintners, the wines produced on this
land were never more than average in quality.
Rena thought about what Maura had said to her the first time
they met: you have to live on the land and work it with your own
hands before you can produce great wines.
As she turned onto the road leading to the gravel driveway,
she asked herself how many people she had met in her lifetime
35

who were capable of spinning cocoons? The answer so far was
just one. A decision had been reached in her head: She was going
to do everything in her power to find out what happened to Maura.
Chapter Three
_R
ena used her key to let herself in the house.
She put her suitcase down on the oak-plank floor in the
foyer. Sounds could be heard coming from the dining room.
Passing through the huge living room filled with antique furniture
and priceless paintings, she went into the dining room and found
two servants setting the giant mahogany table for a dinner party.
Overhead, a crystal chandelier that once belonged to the Vienna
Opera House hung suspended from the twenty-foot ceiling.
Who was having a party? She wondered if some of her father's
friends were staying here for the weekend.
From a distance she could hear a faint rattling noise coming
from the bottling plant next to the winery. Looking out of the
huge window, she saw the field-workers picking clusters of char-
donnay grapes off the vines and tossing them into large vats that
were slowly being dragged through the furrows by tractors.
The odor of sulphur dioxide permeated the air, reminding her
of the day when she first met Maura.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Simon's helicopter sitting
on the pad at the side of the house. She had no idea that he was
in Napa. He was supposed to be in Switzerland on business.
Rena went upstairs to her bedroom. Taking off her skirt and
high heels, she quickly changed into jeans, sneakers, and a
T-shirt. She washed up and brushed her hair, then went down-
stairs to the den to make a phone call.
She had a strong desire to talk to Charlie, for no other reason
than just to hear his voice. They had argued again last night about
how they don't spend enough time together, and he had left with-
out staying the night. She picked up the phone, dialed a few
36

digits, then hung up. No, she couldn't risk another confrontation
with him, not when her emotions were too caught up with Mau-
ra's disappearance. Instead, she left the house and walked down
the path leading to the winery. It was harvesting time and the
sound of the pressers and bottling machines were deafening.
She went past the huge stainless-steel tanks that were used for
fermentation and into the modern wine factory. Inside, teams of
workers were standing next to a conveyor belt taping up the car-
tons of wine that passed by them. Others were stacking up the
cases, getting them ready for dispatch.
The computer room, with its vast array of terminals and elec-
tronic gear, was visible at the other end. There, data bases were
used to predict the effects of weather and to monitor irrigation,
temperature, and fermentation.
Inside the barrel room, Rena found Simon. He was talking to
a good-looking, well-built man with silvery hair and a deep tan.
They were standing next to rows of fifty-gallon oak barrels that
were aging cabernets. Simon took out the stopper from one of
the casks and poured a small amount of red wine into a glass.
He then held it up to the light. The grim look on his face sug-
gested that his award-winning cabernet would have to wait an-
other year.
Rena went over to him. "Hello, Dad," she said loudly, trying
to talk over the roar of the machines.
Simon turned around. He was a massive man with a mane of
white hair. A smile broke out on his face, and his eyes became
alive. "My God. What are you doing here?" he shouted.
' 'I was going to ask you the same thing. Weren't you supposed
to be in Switzerland?" she yelled.
He leaned over and hollered in her ear. "I was. I got bored
with clocks that told the same time and green mountains with
little tips of snow on them. It's a lot more fun being up here
during the harvesting. Why didnt you let me know you were
coming?"
She then told him about her planned weekend with Maura and
the events that followed.
"I heard about the murder, but I didn't know it happened at
Maura's place." His face took on a grim look and the gullied
wrinkles on his forehead got deeper. He had remembered Maura
as a child and had liked her. Putting his large hand on Rena's
shoulder, he said, "I hope there's a logical explanation to where
she is. Give it a few hours. Let's see what happens."
37

Forcing a smile, she nodded.
"How is my granddaughter?" he asked with a hint of sorrow
in his voice.
"Cathy's fine, Dad," Rena said gently. Her daughter did not
get along with Simon, and she knew it bothered him. She blamed
him for her father's death. As hard as he tried, Cathy's love was
the one thing he could not buy back again. He never gave up,
hoping that one day she'd change.
Simon held the wine up to the light again. "As for this gar-
bage ..." Disgusted, he tossed the contents of the glass onto
the wet floor. Turning to the man next to him, he said, "I'm
sorry. I should have introduced you two sooner. Harrison
Monroe, this is my daughter, Rena."
The man with the silver hair grinned at her, his tanned face
making his teeth seem remarkably white. They shook hands. His
long fingers felt warm and smooth in her hand, and his green
eyes danced over her face, making her feel slightly light-headed.
"I'm sorry about your friend," he said sincerely. "I heard about
the murder from my men in the field. That's all they're talking
about."
"Let's go into my office, both of you," Simon barked over
the noise. "I'm going deaf out here."
The office was away from the machinery and soundproofed.
Simon closed the door, then went around his oak desk and
opened up a temperature-controlled cabinet. Taking out a bottle
of white wine, he said to Rena, "This isn't my wine, not yet
anyway. Hopefully in the next couple of years it will be. Harri-
son," he said, putting his hand on the man's back, "is my new
vintner. He made this wine for the people who bought the old
Pelham vineyard up on Spring Mountain Road a couple of years
ago. This man," pointing his thumb toward Harrison, "goes to
work for them, and in one year produces this quality. He's a damn
genius! He won more awards for some of my competitors than I
care to think about."
Ah, another genius! At least he seems different than the others,
Rena thought. Each year Simon would hire a new vintner, hoping
that this time he found the prodigy that would produce for him
an award-winning cabernet and chardonnay.
"Not only is he expensive," Simon continued, "but his ideas
for revamping the winery will end up costing me a fortune. Look
at this." He took out blueprints from a large, cylindrical case
and opened them up on his desk. "I'm going to be buying up all
38

this acreage so we can add more vineyards. What my other vint-
ners have done in the past was to over-crop—pruning back the
vines so they could yield more grapes. The problem with that
was it also diluted the quality."
It had been a long time since Rena had seen her father this
excited. "Is that what you did for the people who bought the
Pelham property?" she asked Harrison.
"No. Actually it belongs to only one person now. The hus-
band died a little over a year ago and left his widow the property.
Her winery is very small and most of her profits were literally
evaporating from the air-conditioning inside. Temperatures need
to be kept at fifty-eight degrees if the wines are to ferment prop-
erly. Bigger wineries can absorb that kind of loss. Small ones
can't. What I did was to dig an underground cave on her property
where the wines are naturally kept at the right temperature."
"I told you he was brilliant," Simon said beaming.
"It was no big deal," he said with some shyness. "People
have been using caves to store wines in for thousands of years. I
threw out high technology and went back to nature, that's all."
' 'What's the name of the woman who owns the winery?'' Rena
asked.
"Monica van der Slyck."
' 'Like in van der Slyck chocolates?'' Rena said, amazed, fold-
ing her arms and leaning against the desk.
"That was her husband's company. In fact, the murdered field
hand worked in her vineyard," Monroe replied.
"Then her property is the one adjacent to the McKinney's?"
Rena said.
Monroe nodded, his eyes never leaving her face.
Rena looked away.
"I'm throwing a dinner party tonight. Harrison and Mrs. van
der Slyck will be there. HopeMly, you'll come," Simon said.
"I've told her all about you." There was a coloring in Simon's
voice, and his face became animated when he mentioned her
name.
Was there something going 011 between them? Rena won-
dered. "Let me see how I feel, Dad.'"
"Of course," he said, understanding her concern for her
friend.
A woman's voice came over the intercom. "Miss Halbrook,
you have a call on line two."
Rena took the call in the outer office.
39

"Yes?" she said.
"Hi, this is Walter Parsons."
The preppy doctor from this morning. "Yes, Doctor."
"You asked me to call if I found anything out of the ordinary
during the autopsy."
"Did you?" She could feel her heart racing.
"Yes. Are you busy?"
"No."
"Good. Why don't you come over to the hospital. You're go-
ing to have to see this to believe it. It's about a ten-minute drive
from where you are now. Officer Swangel will meet us here
later."
Rena wrote down the address.
She went back into Simon's office and told them she was leav-
ing. Both men were huddled over the desk looking at the plans.
"Hopefully, I'll see you tonight. I'd like you to meet Mon-
ica," Simon said.
"It would be nice if you could come," Harrison said, looking
up from the blueprints.
"Perhaps. Let's see if they find Maura first, okay?"
Harrison shook her hand again, and again she could feel the
heat coming from his flesh.
Walter Parsons met Rena at the admittance section of the hos-
pital. He had on OR greens and rubber gloves that were cloaked
in something wet, sticky, and red.
"What's the matter?" he asked, seeing Rena's face draining
color.
"I have a thing about blood."
"I thought you were a doctor." He looked bewildered.
She smiled. "I'm the kind that puts bandages on psychological
wounds."
"Ahh," he said, smacking his head as it dawned on him. He
began to laugh. "You still want to come inside?"
"Absolutely."
"I hope you have a strong stomach."
"We'll soon find out, won't we. Where's Doctor Frawley? I
thought he was conducting the autopsy."
"He did. Dr. Frawley found exactly what he was looking for—
a drunk with his throat slashed and a puncture wound in the back
of his head." There was sarcasm in his voice. He grabbed a
rubber apron from the closet and gave it to her.
40

"You obviously don't agree with Dr. Frawley's conclusion,"
Rena said, tying the apron around her waist.
"I don't mean to disagree with a colleague, especially some-
one with his vast experience. But if you've done a thousand au-
topsies like he has, and everyone's the same, you're not going to
look very hard at one thousand and one."
"What are we going to look at that's so different?"
"Ah, wait and see," he said, excited.
He opened the door and they went inside.
The remains of Tomas Sanchez lay on a metal table. The Mex-
ican was small but muscular. His organs—lungs, heart, kidneys,
and spleen—were hanging in a scale above the body.
Parsons saw that Rena was turning white. "Are you going to
be all right?"
Rena took a deep breath, smelling the odor of formaldehyde
and ammonia in the room. "Just tell me what you want me to
look at, and please do it as quickly as possible."
"The police are doing a run on the fingerprints. I doubt if
they'll find anything. He's obviously a migrant worker, probably
an illegal who slipped across the border. The valley is filled with
them during the harvesting season."
"He may be a migrant worker, but he's not an illegal," Rena
said, starting to gag. She took a tissue from the box on the table
and held it up to her face. "Look at the tattooed heart on the
right side of his chest. That's the marking of a particular L.A.
street gang. That gang doesn't accept illegals. I'm familiar with
their symbols because I once had a job as a liaison between gang
members and the police when I was doing graduate work. Also,
see the tattoo of a teardrop next to his eye? It's a macho sign
meaning he's done prison time."
"I'm impressed," he said, with respect in his voice. He pushed
back the victim's head exposing his neck. He pointed to the area
of the main artery. "See this slice on the neck? This was made
with a sharp instrument, approximately two inches wide. Prob-
ably a knife."
The knife Manuel had taken from his boot flashed through
Rena's mind. It also was about two inches wide and also ap-
peared to be very sharp. "What else did you want me to see?"
she asked.
Parsons turned the dead man, Tomas, over on his stomach.
He put his finger next to the hole on the top area of the neck.
' 'This is the puncture wound . . . goes right through to the spinal
41

column. A different instrument was used here. More like a 1
triangular nail or spike."
Rena fought down whatever was trying to force its way up
from her stomach.
"This is the most bizarre thing of all." He turned the body
on its back again then took a Papermate pen from his shirt pocket
and moved Tomas's penis over to the side with it. "Notice any-
thing unusual?"
"Please, no questions, just comment. I'm about thirty seconds
away from passing out."
"Gotcha," he said. "There are no testicles in the scrotum.
See?"
Rena's face was already the color of ashes and her forehead
was damp, but she looked. She saw a splattering of dried blood
on his thighs.
"See these two slits on the right and left side of the scrotum?"
He pointed to them with the felt tip of his pen. "They're very
fresh . . . probably made right after he was killed."
Rena stared at him. "Wait a minute. Are you saying the killer
removed his testicles?"
"Yes. Someone made those slits with an exceptionally sharp
cutting tool, most likely a scalpel. There's a lot of tissue damage
inside the scrotum."
"I think I need to get out of this room," Rena said. She was
beginning to feel nauseous.
Parsons took her by the arm and helped her out the door.
In the hallway, Rena leaned against the wall and took deep
breaths until she felt her color returning. If someone would cas-
trate a man like that then what might he have done to Maura?
"I'm not an expert pathologist, but I'd say he was already dead
before his testicles were taken out. I also don't believe he was
killed by the slit on his throat. That puncture wound in the back
of the neck was the one that did it." He put three quarters into
the soda machine. A Sprite rolled out. He opened the lid and
handed it to her. "Drink this, you'll feel better."
"Thanks," she said, taking the can from him. She took two
deep swallows.
' 'One other thing." He put more change into the slot. ' 'There
were several strands of blond hairs under Sanchez's fingernails.
Now, that doesn't mean anything," he said, seeing the concern
on Rena's face. "I've bagged them up in case they need to be
tested." A diet Coke came out of the machine.
42

Down the hallway they saw Pinky Swangel coming toward
them. He was holding a Ziploc plastic bag in his hand, and he
looked grim.
"Did you find Manuel?" she asked him.
"Yeah. The son of a bitch sees my car blocking the road and
flings the knife into the bushes. When I tried cuffing him, his
damn kids jumped all over me, and his wife nearly bit off my
hand."
"Where is Manuel?" Rena said.
' 'In jail for obstructing justice. I should have thrown his whole
damn family in there with him. What the hell was he trying to
hide by keeping the knife?" He held up the Ziploc bag containing
pieces of bloody grass. "I'm taking this to the lab in Geyserville.
I need a blood-type from the dead guy," he said to Parsons. "If
it doesn't match up with the blood on this grass, then we've got
a real problem on our hands."
"Like maybe it's Maura McKinney's blood?" Parsons asked.
"Maybe. Jesus, I don't want to think about that," Pinky said,
shaking his head.
Parsons then told him about his discovery during the autopsy,
including the blond hairs underneath the victim's fingernails, and
Rena's feeling that the dead man was an ex-con.
"Shit!" Pinky said, removing his hat and wiping his brow
with his sleeve. "What kind of nut case do we have here?"
"You're also going to need Maura's blood-type if it doesn't
turn out to be the dead man's," Rena said to him. Her voice was
shaky.
"Oh Lord!" A worried look came over Pinky's face as it
dawned on him what she meant. "How do I get that? She lives
in New York."
"Dr. Frawley may be able to help you," she said, tossing the
soda can into the trash bin. "He delivered her."
"Do you know which hospital?"
"No hospital," she said. "Maura was born at home, but she
grew up here. She must have had a family doctor. Maybe it was
even Frawley. Hopefully whoever it was still keeps old records.
Did you do a fingerprint verification on the dead man?"
"It's being run now. If he did time like you think, then we'll
find out." He turned to Parsons. "You really think he was killed
by that wound in the back of the neck?"
"Yup. With a half-inch triangular spike that penetrated the
area between the first and second vertebra," he said, pointing to
43

the spot on the back of his own neck. "No one could live after
that."
"Christ, maybe I'd better hold Manuel for murder." He ner-
vously put his hands on his gun belt.
"Why?" Rena asked.
"He had the damn knife and was trying to hide it."
"Yes, but he's the one who showed me the knife and the bloody
patch of ground in the first place. Why would he do that if he
murdered the man?" she asked skeptically.
"I don't know," he sighed. Pinky looked troubled. Finally,
he said, "What kind of crazy bastard would rip out a man's. . ."
He couldn't finish the sentence.
Now it was Rena's turn to look distressed. "Obviously a very
sick person," she answered in a restrained voice.
"I never thought of Manuel as being sick," Pinky said.
"I don't think he is," Rena responded.
Filled with exhaustion, she left the hospital and drove back to
the chateau. The only way she could keep her eyes open in the
Range Rover was to think about the appalling things the killer
did to that man in the vineyard. What disturbed her most was the
knowledge that the act of castration was usually carried out by
women in some societies as a form of revenge. Did a woman
murder him? Then she thought about the trail of blood leading
from the spring. Was the man killed there? Most women could
not carry a man from the spring all the way to the vineyard.
However, it could be done if the woman was in a maniacal state.
She remembered studying the Malaysian Amoks, a tribe that
would work themselves into such a murderous frenzy that even-
tually one person would have the strength of ten people. Rena
suddenly recalled the antidepressant medication that she found
in Maura's bag. Why was she taking them? A cold feeling gripped
her stomach. Could Manuel's fear about Maura killing the mi-
grant worker be right? She shook her head, trying to clear from
it such a horrendous idea, but the notion stubbornly clung to the
back of her mind.
She saw the chateau coming up. Right now all Rena wanted
was to get some sleep.
Then the same thought that she had when she was in Maura's
house popped into her head again: I haven't seen Maura in years.
People change.
44

Chapter Four
11hb ip up your sweater. The winds are picking up," Chariie
Mj said, popping another peanut into his mouth.
Charlie Halleran and Cathy, Rena's ten-year-old daughter,
were sitting on a railing in the L.A. Zoo watching a female
Japanese snow monkey picking small, black insects out of her
infant's fur. The winds were beginning to blow hard, sending
Styrofoam cups and candy wrappers soaring past the animal
cages.
Cathy zipped up her sweater and put her hand in the pocket
of Charlie's old leather aviator's jacket for warmth. "Don't you
hate to see such beautiful animals locked away like that?" she
said, taking a peanut from his bag with her other hand.
"Cruel, huh?"
"Yeah." He put his arm round her shoulder and she snuggled
into his body. Charlie had become a substitute father to her after
her real one was killed. "Think you and Mom are ever going to
get married?" she asked.
"We're just good friends right now, Cathy."
"Bullshit. You sleep together. Good friends don't do that."
"You're not supposed to know about that kind of stuff," he
said, grinning.
"Yeah? Well, I do know about that kind of staff. If you're
doing it with her, you might as well marry her."
"You need more than doing it to make a marriage work. Be-
sides, we don't have time in our lives for that."
"You guys fight a lot, don't you?" She looked up at him from
under his arm.
"We don't fight, we discuss."
"God, how grown-up of both of you," she groaned. "I heard
you both discussing two nights ago when you thought I was
asleep. What was that all about?"
45

"You hear everything, don't you? No wonder your ears are so
big," he said, giving her a playful squeeze.
"I bet you think your relationship is not going to work because
we're listed in Forbes as the seventeenth wealthiest family in
America. Sometimes men can't handle that. It affects their mas-
culinity," she said seriously.
Charlie laughed. "You should have bought this month's issue.
You guys moved up a notch to number sixteen when that steel
honcho from Pittsburgh jumped out of his own skyscraper last
week." He finished the bag of peanuts and slam dunked it into
the wastebasket. "Nope, money isn't the problem. Finding time
to be together is."
"When are you leaving for Paris?" she asked, with a trace of
sadness.
"In a couple of days."
"For how long?"
"About a month." He could sense her hurt.
"Mom know?"
"Yes, she knows." He tried to keep the disappointment out
of his voice. ' 'I had hoped your mom and I could have spent this
weekend together. That's what that discussion you heard was all
about."
"Oh, and she opted to go to Napa to meet her friend, instead,
huh?"
"Yeah, something like that," he said, sighing. There were
always "something like that's" coming between us, Charlie
thought to himself. Too many. He spent half his time as a reporter
traveling all over the world. When he did manage to get back to
Los Angeles, his time with Rena was limited because she was
usually swamped with prior commitments.
Charlie looked over to the cages. Three teenage boys, wearing
leather jackets and gang-colored bandannas around their legs,
strutted toward the snow monkeys. One of them began hooting
like an ape, jumping up and down, scratching his sides. The
other two laughed and scraped beer cans along the bars.
the mother ape, bearing her fangs, hugged her infant to her
breast and began screeching loudly.
"Assholes!" Cathy shouted at them, ready to jump off the
railing.
Charlie held her back, smiling. "Macaca fuscata, otherwise
known as snow monkeys, are from the old-world family of apes.
If someone gives them shit, they give it right back."
46

The snow monkey grabbed a mound of feces from the straw-
covered floor and flung it through the bars, hitting the three boys.
Yelling obscenities, they put their arms over their heads for pro-
tection. The monkey continued throwing while jumping up and
down and screeching until the boys raced down the pathway and
into the tunnel for cover.
"I guess you literally meant it when you said they give shit
right back," Cathy said, laughing.
"Yep."
"Gosh, you know a lot about a lot of things, don't you, Char-
lie?"
He got down from the railing and helped her off. She was
getting more and more attached to him. Part of him liked the
feeling. He hadn't allowed another child to get this close to him
since his own daughter was killed. But what happens if he and
Rena stop seeing each other? There was that possibility. How
would it affect Cathy?
They ate dinner at a dim sum restaurant in Brentwood, then
Charlie drove her home. Anna, Simon Halbrook's housekeeper,
was staying at the house and looking after Cathy while Rena was
away.
For the next hour, Charlie walked along San Vicente Boule-
vard, peering into the windows of the overpriced art galleries
and clothing stores, thinking about Rena. Cathy was perceptive;
she could detect things weren't right between them. He realized
he was reaching a turning point in his relationship with Rena. At
this moment he just wasn't sure which way he wanted it to turn.
Charlie lived in a duplex off of Sycamore in the old section of
Los Angeles, a far cry from Rena's big white house nestled safely
away in the Brentwood hills. The apartment had three rooms: a
bedroom; a 1950s kitchen with a formica table and chairs; and a
living room, which contained a flowered sofa that he bought from
the previous tenant and an old Emerson TV with coat hangers
taped to the rabbit ears for reception. One side of the living room
wall was covered with books, the other three sides with memen-
tos he collected from around the world while working as a re-
porter. Next to the stereo was a black-and-white photo of himself
with Fidel Castro. Grinning, they had their arms around each
other, with big Havana cigars protruding from their mouths.
Charlie took a Coors from the refrigerator, went into the living
room, and turned on his computer. He punched up UPI on his
news service and browsed the headlines. Hopefully if something
47

more interesting popped up, he might be able to talk his editor
out of sending him to Paris to cover the OPEC meeting. After
just coming back from spending six weeks with the Hezbollah
militia in Lebanon, listening to oil barons talking about the price
of a barrel of crude would be as exciting as watching wallpaper
peel.
Same old shit, Charlie thought, as he watched the international
headlines pass before his eyes on the screen: famine, wars, earth-
quakes.
He then punched in the national news. Again, the same thing,
just different names and faces. When he came upon the murder
of a seventeen-year-old girl, he stopped scrolling and scanned
the article. It was a brief, one-column piece that told about the
partially decomposed body that was discovered outside of Pe-
conic on the north fork of Long Island. The part that caught his
attention was what the murderer had done to the girl. The sick
bastard had sliced open her lower abdominal area and torn out
her ovaries!
Charlie sighed and turned off the computer. He closed his eyes
and sipped his beer. A picture of an elegant snow monkey with
its beautiful white coat of fur standing freely on the ridge of a
Japanese ice-capped mountain appeared in his head. Darwin had
it ass-backward, he thought. Nothing as glorious as that could
have evolved into man.
Chapter rive
_R
ena found herself walking up the steps leading to the
door of Maura's house. The sun had just set, and the light
had darkened to the color of battleship gray. In the sky, black
clouds hung low and ominous. The air was cold and the winds
lashed out at her, slapping angrily against her face.
Why am I here? she thought to herself. Everything seemed
48

larger than it should be—the steps, the chairs on the porch, the
door.
Her nerves tingled, warning her that there was something for-
bidden here and that she should leave. She wanted to run, but
she couldn't. Some invisible, intangible thing was drawing her
up those stairs.
The screen door opened on its own, beckoning her to enter.
Once inside, she found herself alone in the living room. It was
dark here, and shapeless shadows darted in and out of corners of
the room. Suddenly she heard noises coming from the second
floor. Frightened, she slowly made her way over to the bottom
of the staircase. Her heart was pounding. She turned the switch
to the hall light, but it failed to go on.
Rena knew she should leave. She knew she should run as fast
as she could to get away from here. Again she sensed that bodi-
less force pushing her onward. Something inside her needed to
know what was up those stairs. As she climbed the steps the
sounds became louder. She froze; the noises, she suddenly re-
alized, were tiny footsteps scurrying across the floor in one of
the rooms above. When she came to the top of the landing, she
saw a harsh light creeping out from the seams of the closed door
that led to Maura's room. Her body was shaking with fear.
Run! Run!
Again she couldn't. Once more that unseen power was draw-
ing her onward. Slowly she pushed the door open. The light
coming from the room was blinding. She cupped her hands over
her eyes in order to see.
Over by the mirror she saw Maura. Except something was
wrong. The girl in the room, with skin as white as milk, was the
Maura she knew when she was ten years old. The young Maura
was pacing the floor, naked, holding the bloody, bone-handled
knife in her hand. Her blond hair on her head was in flames, and
her pubic hair, the color of golden threads, glowed from the
reflection off the glaring light bulb. She turned and looked at
Rena and a menacing smile broke across her mouth.
Rena caught her own reflection in the mirror behind Maura.
My God! I'm also ten years old! She looked at her hands and
feet; they were those of a child. Shaking with fear, she looked
up at Maura.
Maura stretched out her hands to her, revealing long red fin-
gernails. She beckoned Rena to come closer. Rena wanted to
turn around and run down those stairs, but that invisible thing
49

was now pulling her toward her friend. Then she saw Matri|fl
eyes through the flames that encircled her hair; they were differ-
ent colors: one was blue, the other brown. Again she tried to get
away but that force that kept her here was now blocking her path,
refusing to let her escape. The unseen presence began to become
concrete and was taking on the shape of a hand. It's fingers started
to dig deeply into her shoulder.
Maura started coming toward Rena, her feet making soft
sounds on the hardwood floor. She was gripping the bloody knife
tightly by the hilt. Closer she came . . . closer. Rena could feel
the heat from the flames engulfing Maura's hair. The smile on
Maura's pale lips widened, and then she opened her mouth ex-
posing sharp, bloodstained teeth.
Frozen with terror, all Rena could do was scream as the fingers
on her shoulder pulled at her. Gasping for breath, Rena opened
her eyes and looked up. The hand that was gripping her shoulder
was Simon's. For a second she didn't know where she was. Look-
ing around she saw that she was lying in her bed in the chateau
and that it was night.
"I thought it best to wake you. You've been sleeping for
hours," Simon said, turning on the light by the nightstand. He
sat down on the bed next to Rena and once again put his hand
on her shoulder. "Are you all right? It looked like you were
having a bad dream.''
Rena sat up, brushed the sleep from her eyes, and looked at
Simon. He was wearing a tuxedo. "Yes, I'm fine," she said.
Downstairs, she could hear the clinking of glasses and laughter.
"I'd like you to come down and meet my guests," Simon said
to her.
Simon's dinner party. My God, I had completely forgotten
about it! she thought to herself. She was so exhausted that when
she got back from the autopsy she went directly up to her room
and fell into a dead sleep. Rena had only meant to take a short
nap. Looking at Simon, she said, "I'm really not up for it to-
night. I hope you don't mind."
A sad expression came over his face. "I can't tell you what to
do anymore. It's just that it would make me happy if you would
join us."
She saw the pleading in his eyes, and she was touched. "It's
this van der Slyck woman, isn't it?" Rena asked, smiling.
Simon looked away and nodded his head slowly. "I would
very much like you to meet her," he said softly.
50

Rena knew this wasn't easy for him. There had been other
women in Simon's life since her mother died, but this sounded
serious. "Okay," she said after a beat. "Give me about ten min-
utes to wash up. I must warn you that I didn't bring any evening
wear."
Simon stood up, his face glowing. "Hell, come on down the
way you are!" Then after a moment, he said sincerely, "Thank
you." He left, closing the door.
He's in love, she realized. Simon the Great is in love! Rena
almost laughed at that thought as she stepped out of her jeans.
She took a quick shower, then put on a silk blouse with padded
shoulders and a skirt that matched.
As she brushed her hair in front of the mirror, she began to
think about her dream. It bothered her. Obviously the terrifying
child she found in the upstairs bedroom was not Maura, but her
own hidden fears that took the physical shape of Maura. What
am I frightened of? The truth about the murder? Why ? Does part
of me actually believe that she's capable of committing such a
gruesome deed?
But why the different colors of her eyes? Of course, now I
remember! she almost blurted out. When they vacationed to-
gether in Greece, Rena once opened the bathroom door in their
hotel room not knowing that Maura was inside. She saw her
standing in front of the mirror with a towel wrapped around her
body and putting in her contact lenses. Hearing Rena enter, she
turned around and quickly covered her face with her hands. Rena
excused herself and closed the door. It was only a brief second
that she saw her, but she swore when Maura turned to her that
her eyes were two different colors. Rena dismissed it at the time
as the Aegean sunlight playing tricks with her own eyes as it
filtered through the glass window.
Rena pulled the brush through her hair one last time, touched
up her makeup, then went downstairs.
When she came into the dining room, Simon stood up from
the table and proudly introduced her to the guests. The men all
wore tuxedos and the women had on evening gowns. Rena smiled
to herself thinking about how out of place she must look.
She was given a seat at the table directly across from Monica
van der Slyck. After meeting her, Rena understood her father's
infatuation. Monica was a slim, impeccably dressed, aristocratic
woman, somewhere between forty-five and sixty years old. Her
51

true age, Rena believed, was buried somewhere beneath a couple
of face-lifts and a carefully applied makeup job.
Next to Mrs. van der Slyck, sat her son, Otto. He was an elfish
man in his mid-twenties with a jaunty air about him. He showed
little interest in the dinner conversation, except when the discus-
sion briefly tamed to what some of the guests considered to be
the best resorts and restaurants in the world. He then looked up
from the wine he was lazily swirling around in his glass and
focused his bulging, froglike eyes on the speaker. Breaking into
a garish smile, he shook his head and inteijected his own opin-
ion. He spoke with an upper-crust, New England accent laced
with a wine-heavy tongue. "I absolutely disagree," he said.
"Nice was the place to vacation a few years back. The city is
now overflowing with the typing-pool crowd from West Ger-
many and England. The second they hit the pebble beaches, they
remove their tops and lie in the sun for eight hours straight, getting
third degree burns on their tender little titties. I suggest you try
Sardinia if you want to see some tanned, gorgeous people."
The guests looked at each other, then down at their plates with
embarrassed coughs. Mrs. van der Slyck glared at her son. Otto
stared back at her with his watery blue eyes, blinked them in-
nocently at her several times, smirked, then returned to his wine-
glass.
Rena looked over at Simon and saw the rage in his eyes. She
knew how he detested boorish men like Otto. Yes, it had to be
love or he would never allow someone like him in his house.
The other dinner guests included Mr. Yamaguchi, a business-
man who was quietly buying up wineries in the United States for
his Japanese conglomerate; Mrs. Yamaguchi, his shy, nontalka-
tive wife; Edmond Farnsworth, a multimillionaire who had re-
tired from his microchip company in the Silicon Valley after
suffering a severe heart attack and now dabbled in making exclu-
sive, expensive wines; and Blythe, his younger, attractive wife
of one year.
Harrison Monroe sat next to Rena. His shaggy, silver hair
hung down over his collar. He turned and smiled at her, then
went back to the table conversation. Even though he was not
touching her, she could feel the heat emanating from his leg
under the table. It was not an unpleasant sensation, but it made
her uncomfortable.
Farnsworth, who was in his mid-sixties, had his liver-spotted
hand around his wife's chair and was telling everyone about how
52

he and Blythe met. The entire room seemed bent on hearing this
because Blythe was a strikingly beautiful woman who was almost
twenty-five years younger than Farnsworth.
"Here I am in intensive care ... my chest all bandaged from
the bypass and tubes sticking out from every cavity in my body.
The only thing I'm looking at are the peaks and lows of the lines
on the heart monitor. As long as the lines are moving up and
down, I know I'm still alive. Every breath I'm taking I think is
my last. Then suddenly I look up and I see this gorgeous woman
from the lobby flower shop setting this plant down on my
dresser.'' He turned his glowing eyes in Blythe's direction. ' 'The
second she smiles at me, pow!—I know I'm in love."
Everyone at the table nodded their heads and laughed.
Blythe blushed, and Farnsworth gave her shoulder a squeeze.
"I suddenly think to myself, 'What are you doing? You have all
the money you're ever going to need. You practically killed your-
self making it. Now go out and enjoy life!' That's exactly what I
did! Blythe and I were married three months later. I always
wanted to live up here and own a winery, so I bought one." He
turned to his wife with gleaming eyes, and she looked away,
smiling. "She gets embarrassed when I talk about how happy I
am," he said to the guests. "And what about you, Simon? When
is enough, enough? Ever think about selling out and retiring a
billionaire?"
"You and I are a different breed, Edmond," Simon said,
pointing his salad fork at him. "The only thing that keeps the
arteries in my heart unclogged is knowing that there's a new deal
to be made just around the corner. As for companionship, well
. . . who knows."
Rena caught the quick eye contact between Simon and Mon-
ica.
During the main course of grilled salmon, the conversation
turned to the grizzly death of the Mexican worker and the mys-
terious disappearance of Maura McKinney. All heads turned to-
ward Rena. By this time they knew she had come to Napa to
spend time with her childhood friend.
"A very strange affair," Farnsworth said, pouring a glass of
a Puligny-Montrachet for Blythe and Himself.
' 'I heard the woman's father was a good wine maker,'' Blythe
said, looking interested.
"One of the best," Simon said. "He used to work for me
when he needed money. But he was hard to get along with . . .
53

always wanting to make wines his way. He was a private man
. . . mostly kept to himself.''
"I certainly hope nothing happened to the girl," Mrs. vander
Slyck said in her Dutch accent, while looking sympathetically at
Rena.
"Unless, of course, she's the one that killed him," Otto said,
casually.
''Otto, please!'' Mrs. van der Slyck said, scowling at her son.
"Yes, please, Otto!" Rena said coldly. She was outraged that
this lout with froglike eyes would dare make such an insensitive
statement about Maura. Then she felt Simon's hand on hers,
squeezing it. The squeeze was saying, "Let it be, for my sake."
Rena, lips trembling with anger, sat back in her chair.
After a pause, Monica turned to the guests and said, "The
man who was murdered in her fields worked for us. "
"Where did he come from?" Rena asked suddenly.
"Excuse me?" Monica replied.
"Did you hire him?"
"Er . . .no." She looked confused and turned toward Otto.
"My son does the hiring."
Rena moved her hands away from the table so the servant
could take her salad plate, then said to Otto, "Where did you
find him?"
Otto shrugged in a casual manner, but he looked uncomfort-
able. He quickly filled up his glass again with wine. "I don't
remember. He may have been recommended or he came to the
vineyards asking for work. What difference does it make?" he
asked defensively.
Rena believed Otto did know how Tomas Sanchez was hired.
Why was he being evasive? Perhaps it was not the right time to
pursue it, but she said, "Tomas Sanchez was born in the United
States and was from the barrio of Los Angeles. Very few migrant
workers come from there—the reason being there are no fields
to pick in a big city. There's also a good chance he spent time in
prison."
Monica turned and glared at Otto. He looked down into his
glass, his face the color of wax.
After a minute, Monica tore her eyes away from her son and
said, "Maura McKinney is our neighbor. Her property is adja-
cent to ours. I remember she was here last year, also around this
time. She seemed to be very much of a loner. In the entire time
she spent here, I saw her only once. I must say, though, she's an
54

exceptionally attractive woman. She went out mostly at night.
Even though I didn't see her, I could hear the sound of her foot-
steps on the gravel road as she passed by our house. I also thought
that to be rather odd. I made a point of watching for her, but she
was so evasive."
Again Rena felt annoyed. Maura was a person who cherished
her privacy, yet Monica and her son seemed bent on destroying
it with their nosiness.
"Maybe she had a boyfriend. It's been known to happen,
mommy dear," Otto interrupted. Slinking back in his chair and
running his finger around the rim of the wineglass, he said, "I
spent the summer in Italy last year and returned to Napa in Sep-
tember. That's when Maura was here. I never saw her, but some
nights I could hear her walking down the mountain about one in
the morning and returning around four or five. Yes, I'd say a
lover would be the safe bet," he said with a knowing smile. He
finished his wine and poured himself another.
"Only out at night, eh? Ah, maybe she's a vampire," Mr.
Yamaguchi said, grinning, in very broken English.
Mrs. Yamaguchi laughed, cupping her hand over her mouth.
"I'm sure they'll find her," Rena said, forcing the acid back
down in her throat. She wanted to get away from this conversa-
tion. These people had no right discussing Maura over their fish
fillets and good wine as if they were on a first-name basis with
her.
Mr. Yamaguchi changed the subject and talked about this year's
harvest. The dinner guests leaned forward, trying to hear what
he was saying through his thick accent.
How strange, Rena thought. These rich vineyard owners lis-
tening to a man who doesn't know the first thing about making
wine. The foreign conglomerate he worked for was buying up
more and more vineyards and adding them to its already large
stable of cars, stereos, and televisions. You have to work the land
with your own hands to produce great wine, Maura had told her
so long ago. I'm afraid those days are over my good friend, Rena
said to herself with a deep sorrow for something that was lost
and might never be regained.
After dinner, everyone adjourned to the living room. The
guests sat back in the Louis XIV sofas and were poured cognac
by Simon's valet.
Needing air, Rena walked out on the veranda. The cool breeze
was a refreshing change from the stuffy conversation inside. She
55

looked up into the night sky, appreciating the thousands of stars
pricking the blackness. Los Angeles's neon signs and skyscraper
lights had long ago destroyed this wondrous sight for its inhab-
itants.
"Beautiful night. What do you think?" Harrison Monroe said
from behind.
She turned around. He was walking toward her holding a
brandy snifter in his hand. His face, she thought, was exception-
ally handsome in the moonlight.
"I think you're right. It is a beautiful night." Again, she saw
those green eyes skipping over her face and body. He leaned on
the railing next to her, his arm touching hers.
' 'You seemed a little bit defensive when Maura McKinney was
mentioned," he said.
She moved her arm away. "She's a good friend. I'm sure
bantering her name about makes for great dinner conversation,
but people who don't know her shouldn't form conclusions about
her life or what happened yesterday in her winery."
"Ah, you mean Otto. He's a good kid—just thinks he's Prince
Charles—or Princess Diana—I'm not sure which."
Rena laughed.
"You have a nice laugh. Your father tells me you're involved
with someone."
"Yes, I am," she said, beginning to feel uneasy with where
this chat was heading. Simon was not fond of Charlie. He once
told her that Charlie represented man at his "failed best." She
believed the real reason he disliked him was because Charlie
could see through her father's deepest defenses and that made
him conquerable. The one thing Simon hated was being on an
equal basis with another human being.
"Why isn't he up here with you?" Harrison asked.
"We have different priorities this weekend." She rubbed her
arms trying to wipe away the evening chill.
' 'Would you like my jacket?'' He put the snifter on the railing
and started to take it off.
"I'll be fine, thank you," she said, moving slightly away from
him.
Harrison slid the jacket back over his shoulders. "Wrong tim-
ing, huh?"
"Something like that. Were you always a vintner?'' she asked,
changing the subject.
"No. In the beginning it was just a hobby for me. My father
56

had a small vineyard in his backyard. He pressed and made his
own wine, and I learned the basics from him. I studied enology at
UC Davis, but I became a mineralogist instead. Less work and
more money in it. I worked in mines all over the world—but mostly
in the Mediterranean countries . . . Turkey, Greece, Yugoslavia.
After a while, it got a bit tiresome. I wanted roots, a place to call
my own, so I went back to my first love, wine making."
"You must feel very content."
"I am. I'm good at what I do. It's like being a doctor. I take
sick wineries and make them well again."
"Anyone have a light?" Blythe asked, stepping through the
open French doors onto the veranda. She was holding a cigarette.
"Absolutely," Harrison said, laughing. He took a gold lighter
from his jacket. Blythe cupped her hands over the lighter, resting
her fingers on top of his to keep the wind from putting out the
flame. Her hand touched his for several seconds longer than nec-
essary, then she slowly slid her fingers down and moved away.
Rena noticed.
Blythe took a long, hard drag from the cigarette, then closed
her handsome hazel eyes and let the smoke out slowly. "Ahh,
you don't know how good that feels," she said, smiling. "It's a
filthy habit, I know, and someday I swear I'm going to give it
up. But right now . . . goddamn, but it tastes good!" She
laughed.
"I bet," Rena said. There was a lot of inflection in Blythe's
voice; it made her seem animated like Bette Davis and Joan
Crawford. Yet at the same time there was also a hardness there.
No, indifference might be a better word, Rena thought. To be
vibrant and detached all at once—a contradictory combination.
It was almost as if she were performing rather than genuinely
feeling. Rena scanned her face. Up close, now, she could see
that Blythe was older than she originally thought: crow's-feet
lined her eyes and wrinkles surrounded her mouth. Her brilliant
eyes sparkled with energy, but like her voice, there was an un-
definable darkness there.
"Oh, I hope you don't mind me joining you. It's just that I
can't smoke when Edmond is in the room. His heart and all, you
understand," she said vivaciously.
"I do understand," Rena said.
"Well, I don't think I'm being totally honest about the real
reason I joined you." She blushed. "You both are close to my
age. Don't get me wrong ... I love Edmond with all my soul!
57

It's just that sometimes I miss having someone to talk to who
also doesn't remember what life was like before television. Not
that I'm a young chicken ..."
Rena laughed. "You don't have to explain. It's a very natural
feeling." She guessed her age to be around forty.
Blythe brushed back her chestnut-colored hair, looked over
her shoulder to the guests sitting inside the living room, pouted,
then leaned over to Rena and Harrison and whispered, "I bet
everyone in that room is questioning my motive for marrying
Edmond."
"Not necessarily," Rena said.
"Oh sure they are. It's okay. I understand. Hell, I'd probably
be doing the same thing if I was them. What's someone like me,
a girl that sold flowers for a living, doing with a man his age? I
know that's what they're thinking. I see it in their eyes and hear
it in their voices whenever they talk to me. They're thinking it's
got to be the money. What they don't know is that I made Ed-
mond sign a prenuptial agreement. If he dies before me, most of
his money goes to his kids and to charity. I don't know how
much longer he's got, but while he's alive I never want him think-
ing, even for a second, that I married him for anything but him-
self. '' There was concern in her voice.
"Love has nothing to do with age," Rena said warmly. "Ask
all of Picasso's surviving ex-wives."
Blythe and Harrison laughed.
"You both seem nice," Blythe said. Hirning those beautiful,
hazel eyes to Rena, she said, "Do you get up here very often?"
"At least a couple of times a year."
"Good. I hope we see each other again. I have to leave to-
morrow for Palm Springs. We have a house there. Ugh! The only
thing worse than the heat in the Springs is the boredom. There's
no way you'll be back here next week, huh?"
Rena sensed her eagerness. "I doubt it, but you never know."
"Hell, Los Angeles isn't that far. Maybe we could meet, have
lunch and do some shopping," Blythe said anxiously.
Why do so many women with time on their hands love to
shop? Rena wondered. It would probably make a good study. "I
don't know about the shopping part but lunch sounds great."
A servant came out on the patio and told Rena Sheriff Swangel
was on the phone.
She excused herself, leaving Blythe and Harrison alone on the
porch, and went into the study to take the call.
58

"Have you found Maura?" Rena immediately asked him.
She could hear him sucking in a long stream of air on the other
end, then he said, "No, but we got the fingerprint reports back. "
He sounded somber.
From the corner of her eye she could see her father's guests
sitting in the living room. "Yes?" she said.
"Most of the prints on the knife were smudged or belonged
to Manuel. The lab identified a right thumb print belonging to
Maura."
"No others?"
"None."
"What about the blood?" Rena was tense.
"The blood on the grass and the blood on the knife were the
same type as the victim's."
"I see," Rena said softly.
"As I said before, I think we got a real problem on our hands.
We can't find anything that says there was a third party in-
volved." He now made loud wheezing sounds blowing air out
of his mouth.
"What about his fingerprints?"
"His name was Tomas Sanchez, and you were right about him
spending time in jail. In fact, he'd been in and out of jail most
of his life—gang-related robberies, drugs, attempted murder. He
did heavy time in Soledad for the rape of two women."
"Rape?" Something was beginning to stir in her mind. Man-
uel may have been right when he said that someone could have
come across her when she was swimming naked. "The lagoon
where she swam was far from the main road. How did he know
where to find it?" she asked.
"He worked at the van der Slyck winery right next to Maura's
property. Maybe Sanchez was taking a shortcut to get back."
"Okay, and maybe he came upon Maura swimming in the
spring. She's a beautiful woman and rape wasn't alien to this
man."
"Yep, and using the knife on him certainly would be consid-
ered justifiable homicide, except for the fact that Doctor Parsons
says it was a pointed instrument driven through the back of the
neck that killed him, not the knife wound. Why would she do
something like that?" He seemed disturbed.
"We don't know that she did anything yet," she said. She
began thinking about the blond hairs found under Sanchez's fin-
gernails.
59

"Something just isn't right! I mean this guy was stabbed,
spiked in the neck, de-balled, then tied up to a grapevine like he
was Jesus Christ himself. If Maura did it—and God help me but
I'm beginning to think it looks more and more like it—then would
somebody tell me how she managed to move the body all that
distance? Unless, of course, she had help." He let out a sorrow-
ful, deep breath.
"Meaning Manuel?" she said skeptically.
"Who else? He's been more true to her than a pet dog. He
could have shown you the knife and bloodstains thinking you'd
be equally as loyal."
Rena didn't answer. Pinky may be slow, but he was not dumb.
There was a lot of truth in what he said. Manuel was frightened
and didn't want the police to know about the knife. It was also
only a matter of time before forensics would go into Maura's
room and find the medications that were used to control mental
disorders. Yes, things were beginning to point to Maura.
Pinky said, "Maybe she killed him in self-defense with the
knife, then went crazy. I don't know, but if she's out there then
I'm sure as hell going to find her. I have my men stationed on
every road leading out of the valley, also at the bus depot and
airport. The New York Police have been alerted, just in case she
eludes us aHd makes it back home."
"I can't understand why she didn't take her own car and
clothes," Rena said.
"Who knows. As I said, maybe she was crazy, and crazy
people don't think straight. You'd know more about that stuff
than me. The reason she didn't take her car could be because
another person—and that person could very well be Manuel-
drove her somewhere and is hiding her out."
Or that person could be Uncle Wiggly, she thought to herself,
remembering the name from Maura's appointment book. "Do
you know who Uncle Wiggly is?" she asked him.
"No. I also saw that name in her book. I have a couple of men
putting that same question to the people in the valley who knew
her. Anyway, I'd better be getting back to work," Pinky said.
She felt tired and cold after she hung up the phone, and wished
to hell Charlie was here right now to wrap his arms around her
and keep her warm.
She started to walk back to the party, then changed her mind.
Laughing at bad jokes and making small conversation was some-
thing she found totally unappealing while Maura was out there
60

somewhere needing help. Suddenly a heavy tiredness overtook
her. Turning back around, she slowly made her way upstairs and
went to bed.
Chapter Six
_R
ena flew back to Los Angeles early the next day and picked
up her Jaguar at the parking lot across the street from the
airport.
As she drove home through the lazy Sunday traffic, she felt an
urge to see Charlie. We should talk ... too many loose ends
between us, she reasoned. She picked up her cellular phone,
punched in some numbers, then put it back on the cradle. No,
let's do this in person.
Instead of continuing on the 405 North, she turned east on the
Santa Monica Freeway and headed toward Hollywood.
Would he be there? she thought. Damn, I hope so!
She pulled into his driveway, jumped out of the car, and
knocked on his door. There was no answer. Her shoulders sagged
in disappointment.
Then she saw him. He was down the block playing touch
football with several of the Hasidic kids who lived in the neigh-
borhood. Charlie had the football and was zigzagging down the
middle of the street, trying to dodge the hands of the laughing
boys who wore skullcaps, ear curls, and tzi tzis. He had on his
faded Brooklyn College T-shirt and an old ripped pair of 501
Levi's that he had promised Rena he would throw away.
When he saw her, he broke out into a grin and stopped run-
ning. The boys jumped all over him, and he held up his hands
in mock surrender. Tossing them the ball, he jogged over to her.
A thrill went through her entire body. All the things she
planned to talk to him about suddenly became small and incon-
sequential. Instead, she threw her arms around his neck and
kissed him hard on the mouth.
61

"Damn it, Charlie! I missed you!" she said breathlessly.
He grabbed her around the waist, lifting her several inches off
the ground, and edged his way toward the apartment. The Has-
idic boys watched with mouths open in frozen amazement as
Charlie carted her inside and closed the door.
She wrapped her legs around his hips, kissing his face, feeling
the roughness of his beard stubble against her cheek. He carried
her through the living room and into the bedroom, letting out a
scream along the way as he banged his shinbone on die edge of
the coffee table. While still embracing, they fell onto the bed.
He moved his hands over her breasts and thighs. Her skin began
to tingle with hunger. Then he started to unbutton her blouse.
It was always like this between us, she thought, as she watched
Charlie pull off his T-shirt. Fight and fuck . . . fight and fuck.
She needed something more from him now. "Charlie, we have
to talk," she whispered, trying to fight off the desire for him.
"We are talking," he said, unzipping her pants.
"I don't mean this way. I mean we have to verbally talk."
"I aim to use my mouth, trust me on that," he said, eyeing
the triangle of dark hair showing through her silk panties. He
started to take off his tattered jeans.
She giggled. "Goddamn you, Charlie! At least give those jeans
a decent burial. You promised me that one."
"Hell, they'd just dig themselves out of the ground and follow
me back home again," he said, getting on top of her and sliding
his naked body over hers.
She moaned, feeling his hardness on her stomach as his tongue
traced a slow path along her inner ear. "Oh, goddamn you,
Charlie!" she murmured in resignation, throwing her aims
around his broad back and locking her legs tightly around his
calves.
Fight and fuck. Jesus Christ!
She awoke to the quivering sensation of Charlie's fingers making
slow, smooth circles on her back. He was propped up on the
pillows, smiling contentedly as he looked down at her. The room
was filled with strong shadows from the late afternoon light.
She dug her face into his chest and held onto him. She could
feel the roughness of the scar tissue on his body caused from a
Claymore mine that exploded next to him during a tour of duty
in Vietnam. "What time is it?" she said.
"Why? Do you have to go home?"
"No." She held him even tighter.
62

"What's going on?" He gently ran his fingers through her
hair.
"You really know me, don't you?"
' 'Yep. You don't normally make love with that kind of appetite
unless something's bothering you. I guess having your way with
my body eases you over the hump," he said, grinning.
"You got it. When I was a junior in high school, I was stood
up on Saturday night by this cute guy. I thought my world had
come to an end, and then I discovered Haagen-Dazs. A pint of
chocolate during one sitting cured me of that creep. I guess what
I'm trying to say is that having sex with you and eating Haagen-
Dazs are my shields to the realities of this world."
"At least I'm up there with good company." He stroked her
cheek.
She snuggled closer into his body and told him about Maura
and everything that happened during the past two days. When
she finished, she looked up at him. He seemed to be in deep
thought, his eyes focused somewhere within himself.
After a minute, he said slowly, "Tell me again about the part
where the guy's balls were torn out."
"I never said they were torn out, Charlie. I said they were
removed."
"I know you didn't say it," he said, getting out of bed.
"Someone else did."
He walked into the next room and disappeared around the
corner. Suddenly the amber glow of his computer screen lit up
the living room.
"What are you doing?" she said, peering into the room and
seeing Charlie sitting naked in front of his computer. She had
the blanket wrapped around her body.
"Looking for yesterday's news," he said, tapping into UPI.
Ten minutes later he found what he wanted: the small article
about Mary Stevenson, the seventeen-year-old girl who was mur-
dered in Peconic, Long Island. He printed it out and handed it
to Rena.
She glanced at the page, flinching when she came to the part
about the girl's ovaries. "Is there a reason why you're showing
this to me?" There was a hardness to her voice.
"You said the Mexican was found in a winery in the vineyards,
right?"
"So?"
"Are you familiar with Long Island?"
63

"No."
"Peconic is one of the major wine-producing areas on the
island. Bit of a coincidence, huh?"
"A coincidence about what?" She was beginning to get an-
gry-
"It just seems a little strange that two people were murdered
in the same way, that's all."
"That's moronic!" she said, holding the article out to Charlie.
"They were not murdered in the same way! This says she may
have been strangled."
"It also says that some butcher performed an ovariectomy on
her," he said.
"The man in California died from a spike driven through his
neck. It says nothing about that here!"
"Yes, I know." Charlie took the article from her and looked
at it again. "What do they mean by 'she may have been stran-
gled.' Wouldn't you think they'd know? It's ambiguous."
"Shit, Charlie! You've got the sagacity of a pea!" She went
back into the bedroom and started to get dressed.
Following her in, he said, "What are you doing?'' It had been
a long time since he'd seen her this irate.
"Getting the hell out of here!" She quickly zipped up her
pants and put on her blouse, not bothering with the bra.
"Rena . . ."
She turned to face him, pointing a finger at his chest. "How
dare you make some idiotic connection between what happened
in California to what happened on Long Island! I was telling you
my feelings about Maura ... a good friend of mine who could
be in trouble, or, who knows—dead! You didn't even hear me,
you were so goddamn busy putting her in two places at the same
time!"
"I never said that..."
"Knock off the shit, Charlie! You were implying it!"
He held up his hands for forgiveness. "You're right, it was
stupid of me."
"Sometimes I think your brains are in your pants, Charlie!"
She pushed past him, heading toward the front door.
His cheeks reddened. "Well ... my pecker never bothered
you before. Of course, it was always used at your convenience!''
She opened the door and turned to him, her eyes flaming with
anger. "You're right ... at my convenience! Try not to get it
64

caught in a zipper, Charlie. Brain cells can't be replaced!" She
slammed the door as she left.
He let out a long sigh. No, he had never seen her this peppery.
Standing naked, staring at the door, he began to feel helpless
and foolish. Why the hell hadn't he thought before he said any-
thing? Maura was her lifelong friend. He should have known
how upset she was about her disappearance.
He sat down beside his desk. Putting his hands behind his
head, he leaned back in the chair and began thinking about the
dead girl in Peconic. The part in the article about how she ac-
tually died was much too vague. How was she found in the vine-
yards? Lying on the ground? Buried? Was she clothed? Naked?
Rena said the Mexican up in Napa was tied to a grapevine, his
arms spread out like a crucifixion. Was she also discovered that
way? As a professional newspaperman, he knew that when copy
was written this vapory, the police weren't giving out much in-
formation. "There's usually just one reason for that," he mut-
tered to himself, reaching for the phone. He dialed Lieutenant
Bobby Genera's home number in Queens, New York.
One of Genera's five children answered the phone. He never
could remember which name belonged to which child, so he just
said,' 'Hi, kid, this is your Uncle Charlie. Is your dad at home?''
The patter of small feet on linoleum fading away, then Ge-
nera's thick leather shoes coming toward the phone.
"Yeah?" Genera said gruffly.
"Lieutenant Genera, my oldest and dearest bud! How the hell
are you?" Charlie said.
"Who the fuck is this?"
"I'll give you a hint." Charlie did an a cappella version of
Sh-boom. By the time he got to ". . . ya-tata, ya-tata," he could
hear Genera groaning on the other end of the line.
"Jesus Christ! Charlie fuckin' Halleran! What's it been . . .
two years?"
"Something like that."
"We used to sing Sh-boom together on the corner of New
Utrecht High School when we were kids," Genera said, laugh-
ing.
"Right." Charlie laughed, too.
"So what the fuck you want, Charlie? You ain't callin' me on
a Sunday night to serenade me with the Crew Cuts greatest
hits." His voice was crusty again.
Charlie stopped laughing. Genera could be either an asshole
65

or a pussycat, depending on his mood. "I hear some young girl
got her reproductive organs cut out in your part of town."
"You talkin' about the murder on Long Island?"
"Yeah."
"What about it? It ain't my turf. I'm in charge of the sixteenth,
remember? My precinct's in the Bronx—not in some high-class
community on Long Island."
"What do you know about the murder?"
"Who gives a fuck! They're killing themselves off by the shit-
load in the South Bronx. You think I care about what happens in
Yuppieville? Why are you so interested?"
"Because something similar happened up in Northern Cali-
fornia. Maybe there's a connection."
"Then get a Long Island newspaper and read up on it."
"I read up on it. The reports are a little ambiguous, which
usually means the police are holding back."
"We're nice guys, Charlie. We don't do things like that."
"Come on, Genero. Withholding information from the public
cuts down on copycat murders. It also helps you guys quickly
sift through the nuts who confess to everything."
"Oowee! I got a winner on my hands!" Genero was laughing
again.
A good sign, Charlie thought. "Maybe this guy's killed before
like this. Maybe he's serial! It would put a clot in the well-oiled
machinery of the police department if the public and the politi-
cians knew too much at this point in the investigation, right?"
"Okay, stupido, you got me interested. How did the guy die
in California?"
"With a pointed instrument that was driven through the neck.
Possibly a nail." Charlie then mentioned that they were both
killed in areas with vineyards and wineries.
"Let me see what I can do. I'll get back to you. Great fuckin'
timin' . . . right in the middle of the Knicks first home game this
year on TV!"
They hung up.
It was dark out now, and Charlie turned on his desk light. He
continued to sit there, naked, with his feet propped up on the
desk, thinking about Rena. Had he blown it with her this time?
Maybe. Well, nothing was forever and there were no constants
in this world—he knew that.
Charlie then went into the kitchen and made himself a salami
sandwich. He took it into the living room, along with another
66

beer, and turned on his TV set to the Sunday sports roundup.
After adjusting the picture by moving around the coat hanger
taped to the rabbit ears, he plopped down on the couch, put his
feet up on the coffee table, and waited for the phone to ring.
If he was lucky, maybe Rena would phone him when she got
home, but he wasn't counting on it. Damn, was she pissed! Usu-
ally she always had control of her emotions. Whatever bone he
touched in her tonight, had to have been deep.
NBC sports was showing the hardest hits in football this week.
Running backs and wide receivers were spiraling in the air, bod-
ies coming down hard on the Astro turf, bones snapping, men
lying on the ground unconscious in twisted positions. Charlie
turned off the TV. What happened to just showing the scores?
he thought. He lay his head back on the couch and sipped his
beer.
We need to talk, Charlie. That's what she wanted from him.
Why couldn't he have given that to her? Instead, like all the other
times, when she wanted closeness, he substituted sex. So much
safer that way.
They argued a lot. He claimed their problems stemmed from
their lack of time together. Now he saw that the "time thing"
was nothing more than a smoke screen—an excuse for not want-
ing to see what was really wrong between them. Maybe the rea-
son Rena had gotten so angry tonight was because she had finally
seen the writing on the wall, too.
He thought about his ex-wife, Rosie. He had talked to her
about everything ... he had listened to her talk about every-
thing. They were close. And what had he gotten for it? She al-
most destroyed his life: went crazy one night and killed their
daughter with a butcher's knife. It took twenty years to put back
the pieces of his shattered self. His ego, he knew without any
illusions, was only held together now by spit and willpower. If
he gave himself completely over to Rena and she left him, he'd
fall apart again, and this time he didn't think he could make the
trip back from hell.
Sex was a sure, solid buffer against hurt.
The picture of his dead daughter, Jaimie, came into his mind.
She was at her dance recital, and he was in the audience watching
her. Wearing a tutu, and with her hands spread above her head,
she was spinning on her toes to the music of the Nutcracker Suite.
How old was she then? Four?
Oh, God!
67

Charlie finished the beer and put the bottle on the coffee table.
Yup, he thought. Closeness can sure be the pits. Not this time
. . . not ever again.
Genero dialed the Peconic police department. From the living
room, he could hear the Knicks game on TV. The crowd at
Madison Square Garden was screaming. Ewing must be tearing
the 76ers up, he thought, pissed that he didn't get to see the play.
I owe you for that one, Charlie!
The desk sergeant at the Peconic station got on the line, and
Genero told him who he was. When he asked to talk to the officer
in charge of Mary Stevenson's investigation, the desk sergeant
said that he wouldn't be in until tomorrow. Then Genero tried to
flush out some information from him on the way the girl died.
The sergeant at first was evasive, then when Genero started to
push a little, got testy. Lieutenant Robert Genero knew a run-
around when he heard one.
"Can you at least tell me where the body is now?" Genero
asked, as nice as could be.
"At the Hoffman Funeral Home on Fourth Street. She's going
to be buried tomorrow."
Genero hung up, then debated with himself whether or not he
should watch the rest of the game or take a drive up to Peconic.
Then he remembered a sweet little cocktail waitress he used to
have some fun with that worked the night shift at the Howard
Johnson's in Cutchogue. It was only a ten-minute drive from the
mortuary.
A smile crossed his lips as he remembered a wild night with
her several months ago. A guy's got to have some fun every once
in a while, he thought to himself, as he got out a pair of brown
slacks and the new sweater with the cable stitching that his wife
bought on sale at Macy's. He splashed a handful of Canoe on his
face and carefully combed his thick, black, wavy hair. Stepping
back, Genero looked at himself in the full-length mirror on the
closet door. Not bad for a guy who's just turned forty-two. A
little thick around the waist, but other than that. . .
On the way out the door he popped his head into the living
room to tell his wife that he was going out. . . police business
. . . don't wait up.
She nodded without looking up from the scarf she was knit-
ting. His two younger boys, the six- and the ten-year-old, were
in front of the TV watching the game and didn't notice him leave.
68

Christ, but she's getting dumpy, he thought, as he started the
car. He remembered Francesca Marie as a beautiful woman,
with white breasts as hard as Italian marble. And what a cute ass
she had! All his friends on the block, including Charlie, used to
tell him what a winner he got. That was before she had five kids.
Well. . . what did he expect from her? She raised them with no
outside help, never complained, and was good to him; always
had his dinner ready no matter what time he got home. He loved
her, Genero at least knew that. He wasn't going anywhere, but
that didn't mean he couldn't screw around now and then.
He stopped the car two blocks away from his house and called
the Howard Johnson's in Cutchogue from a pay phone outside the
A&P. What luck! His cutie was working tonight and told him
she would be off at two. That gave him plenty of time to check
out the body at the funeral home, then make it to the Howard
Johnson's bar and have a few drinks. She'd be wearing that red
miniskirt and wiggling her tight little ass for him while she worked
the tables. Smiling, Genero hopped in the car and got onto the
Long Island Expressway.
Forty minutes later he got off Highway 25 in Peconic. He
found Fourth Street with no difficulty and saw Hoffman's funeral
parior on the corner. It was a big white building with a large sign
in gothic lettering over the door. There were lights in the foyer;
the rest of the place was dark.
Somebody's got to be inside watching the stiffs, he thought as
he got out of the car.
He walked over to the oak door and knocked on it with the
wooden handle from his Colt Python. The sound penetrated the
night like a cannon shot. Within seconds a security guard, no
more than twenty years old, opened the door.
Genero showed the pimple-faced young man in the baggy gray
uniform his badge. ' 'I want to see the body of Mary Stevenson,''
he said gruffly, pushing his large torso past him.
"Er . . . look, I don't know about that. Mr. Hoffman didn't
tell me that the police were coming. Maybe I should call him
first." He was nervous, unsure of himself.
Genero smiled and said quietly. "You do that. Just show me
to the room."
"Sure ... I guess it's okay. The third door on the left."
As Genero walked down the hallway, he could hear the rent-
a-cop picking up the phone. He took the wallet with his badge
out of his pants pocket and attached it to the front of his belt.
69

There was no doubt in his mind that the kid would call the Pe-
conic police as soon as he found out from his boss that he wasn't
authorized to be here. Hopefully the first thing they'd see when
they came storming in the room would be his badge.
He opened up the third door on the left and went inside. The
chamber was dark except for two electric candles lit up next to
the casket. The coffin was open and the small lights made the
shadows dance across the dead girl's face.
"My God, she's beautiful!" Genero whispered to himself.
Normally he was hardened toward death, especially after work-
ing twenty years in the South Bronx. Occasionally though, one
would get through to him, making him wish he had gone into his
brother's construction business instead of becoming a cop.
He touched the girl's cold face, looking for marks; there were
none. Next, he ran his hand down to the neck, feeling the wind-
pipe. It was not crushed like the newspaper article said. He care-
fully pulled up her pink chiffon dress. Probably bought for her
high school prom and now she's being buried in it, he thought,
tisk-tisking. Pushing down her panties, he found the slits sewn
up on both sides of her stomach below the belly button. A cruel
way to die, Mary Stevenson.
Okay, Charlie, let's see if you 're right. He lifted the girl's head
and ran his index finger slowly down the back of her neck. She
was bony, and he could easily feel the spinal column.
Outside, he could hear voices in the foyer. Genero knew the
police had arrived. That was fast. Don't they have anything bet-
ter to do than to bother an honest cop trying to do his fucking
duty?
"Well, well," he said to himself, as his finger touched the
puncture wound. It was deep enough so that Genero had no
trouble putting his entire pinkie inside the hole. Bingo on this
one, Charlie!
The door to the chamber flew open and two uniformed po-
licemen, holding guns, rushed in. They got into the crouch po-
sition, the six-inch barrels of their Smith & Wessons pointing at
Genera's chest.
"Put your hands on top of your head!" one of them barked at
him.
Genero laughed but did as he was told.
The other cop, young, with straight, short black hair and a
trimmed mustache, looked down at the body and saw that her
dress was pulled up past her waist. Turning red with anger, he
70

cocked his revolver and stuck it next to Genera's ear. "You're
one sick, fucking bastard! You get your jollies from doing it with
dead people?"
Again Genero laughed. "Do I look like that kind of guy? You
boys haven't been telling the truth about Mary Stevenson. At
least have the decency to plug up the hole in back of her neck
before you bury her."
The ringing of the phone woke Charlie out of a deep sleep.
He was still on the couch and still naked. The TV set was on. It
was late; he could tell that by the cheaply made commercial that
was showing on the tube: a Jewish lawyer wearing a 1970s large
lapel sport jacket and a wide tie was talking in Spanish about
how little he charges to get amnesty for his clients.
Feeling cold, he went into the bedroom, wrapped himself in
a blanket, then picked up the phone.
"You up, scumbag?" the voice on the line said.
"Hey, Genero, what's up?" Charlie asked, clearing the sleep
from his voice.
"Well, I'm so glad one of us was sleepin'. I just spent three
hours in jail and another hour on the phone with the police com-
missioner."
Charlie snapped awake. "What did you find?"
"You hit a home run, Charlie, my man! Mary Stevenson has
a nice big hole in her neck, approximately one inch down from
the back of her head. This whole town's in an uproar over this.
She was a nice kid—a high school student from an upper-middle-
classlfamily. They found the girl shackled to a vine, like it was
J.C. himself."
"That part wasn't in the papers," Charlie said, excited.
"No shit! Like you said, stupido, they kept the real way she
died and how they found her under wraps so they'd be able to
sift through the crazies. It's out now, though . . . especially after
I told them that there was a similar death up in Northern Cali-
fornia. The FBI was even called in—just in case there's a serial
who's jumpin' states."
After they hung up, Charlie laid back on his bed and wondered
how he was going to tell Rena. Shit! Just tell her and let the cards
fall!
He dialed her number, and when he heard her sleep-filled
voice, he said, "Before you hang up, just answer me one ques-
71

tion—Was the puncture wound found along the top part of the
neck? You never told me that."
He could hear her deep, disturbed sigh on the other end. Then
she said, "Yes, between the first and second vertebra. How did
you know?"
"The girl from Long Island died by penetration from a sharp
instrument that punctured the same area. Her body was then
strapped to a grapevine," he said, as gently as he could.
"I see." After several seconds of silence she whispered,
"Look, I'm sorry about tonight. I don't usually fly off the handle
like that. It's been a hard couple of days."
"I know that."
"I don't think I want to be alone right now. Not after what
you just told me. What are you doing, Charlie?" Her voice
sounded tired.
"Hanging out."
After a beat, she said, "My house or yours?"
Charlie smiled. The inevitable breakup was being put off, at
least for tonight. "Yours," he said. He already had one leg in
his jeans.
As he locked the front door and got into his Mustang, he
thought to himself, No I don't want the pain from being too close
to her, but then again I don't want to be without her either. Shit,
with or without her there's going to be pain in your life. Get used
to it, Charlie, my boy.
He pulled out of his driveway and turned west toward Brent-
wood.
Chapter Seven
_M
aura awoke to a familiar smell, one that she remembered
from years ago. Strong. . . caustic. . . vinegary. The name
of it was on the tip of her tongue but she couldn't think of what
it was called.
72

A vision of her high-school hallway crowded with students
rushing to the next class loomed up in her head for a second then
receded back again into the dark part of her memory. She didn't
know why but that image from her past and the odor that per-
meated the air were intertwined.
Where am I? she said to herself.
Her eyes tried to focus. She was in a semi-dark room, and the
aluminum sky outside streaked through the edges of the paper
window shade. There was a constant rat-ta-tat-tat sound gently
hitting the window. It had to be rain, she thought.
She could sense that she was lying on a soft, lumpy mattress
that sagged in the middle. The bedspread with little cotton balls
on it covered her body like a shroud.
This is not my bedroom! What is this place? Panic began to
rise within her.
She threw off the bedspread and sat up. A wave of dizziness
engulfed her, and her mouth felt terribly dry. Her arms were
hurting something awful, and when she looked down at them she
saw reddish-blue bruises. Was I in a fight? she wondered.
Resting her head on her knees and closing her eyes, she waited
until the light-headed feeling went away.
As she put her fingers up to her face, the familiar smell got
stronger. She realized that the odor was coming from her hands.
What was I touching?
When she felt better she got up. Steadying herself by holding
onto the night table, she walked slowly over to the window. She
pulled down the shade to open it and it suddenly sprung up,
startling her as it wrapped itself around the wooden dowel with
a loud flap, flap, flap.
She saw that it was raining outside; nothing hard, just a steady
drizzle. The windows were dirty, but she could see long stretches
of redwoods.
Something was very wrong!
She made her way to the stained pine door, pushed down on
the cast-iron handle and threw it open. Rushing outside, she
turned full circle hoping to see something familiar. The rain
came down on her face and began drenching her body.
"Where am I?" she screamed.
The house was a small, one-room cabin. Who did it belong
to? She had never seen it before.
This place was also unknown to her; it was too green and the
trees were different than the ones in Napa. These were red-
73

woods—not madrona and oak. Looking out in the distance, she
could see patches of sawed off trees dotting the landscape.
She put her face up to the rain hoping that the cool downpour
would help defog her brain. The image of her beloved spring
hidden away in the hills of Napa appeared in her head. She re-
membered going to it . . . taking off her robe . . . wading . . .
the warm water caressing her burning skin. Then she recalled
the knife! Then the blood—lots of it; its salty smell stinging her
nostrils!
After that, nothing . . . until now.
Had she blacked out again? Oh, God! How bad this time?
She went back into the cabin.
There was a throbbing ache in the back of her head. Did she
take the Darvocet with her? Then she saw her purse on top of the
varnished pine dresser. Trembling from the cold rain, she turned
the purse upside down. Her wallet fell out along with keys to a
car and several credit-card receipts from American Express and
Visa. Frenzied, she shook the bag hard. There was no Darvocet.
"Christ!" she screamed, banging her fist on the wall. "Make
this pain stop!"
Her eyes began to blur from the agony. She wanted to put her
head down on a pillow and close her eyes, rest, but she was afraid
that if she did she would go back into the darkness again.
No, let the pain stay. Let it keep me awake.
She looked into her wallet. There was some money—perhaps
sixty-five dollars—and her credit cards. Then she picked up the
car keys. There was an Alamo tag holding both keys together.
What was she doing with these? The car she rented in San Fran-
cisco was from Hertz.
The credit-card receipts! They might tell her where she'd been.
She wiped away the water that was dripping down from her wet
hair into her eyes and tried concentrating on the names and ad-
dresses printed on the carbon copies. There were five of them:
Alamo Car Rental: Two hundred and sixty-three dollars per
week—Fort Bragg, California.
K mart: One hundred and thirty-five dollars and seventy-three
cents—Fort Bragg, California.
Cafe Beaujolais: Twenty-three dollars—Mendocino, Califor-
nia.
Heritage House: One hundred and seventy-five dollars—
Mendocino, California.
Thomson Realtors: Sixty-five dollars—Fortuna, California.
74

The earliest date was from Alamo; that was on the 17th. How
did she get to Fort Bragg? That's three hours from Napa! Did she
drive all the way? If she did, then what happened to her Hertz
rental car?
Thomson Realtors appeared to be the most recent—September
19th. Was it for the rental of this cabin?
How could that be? she thought, confused. She arrived in
Napa on the 17th. That was two days ago! Could she have blacked
out for two days? She must have; it was her signature on the
receipts.
Fear overshadowed the pain. Maybe it was even longer than
two days; there was no way of telling unless she could find out
today's date. She also needed to call Rena and Uncle Wiggly and
try to explain to them what happened. They must be terribly
worried by now.
Maura looked for a phone in the room. There was none.
Why did I go to Mendocino? Why Fortuna? That's near Eu-
reka.
She grabbed the car keys. Perhaps the rental car was outside.
Going out into the rain again, she followed a pathway leading
to the back of the house.
A '90 white Ford station wagon with dark-tinted windows and
an Alamo sticker on the bumper was under a carport attached to
the cabin.
Why would I rent a large car like that? she wondered.
She opened the driver's door, got in, and unlocked the glove
compartment. Pushing the car's manual aside, she picked up the
rental agreement and looked at it. Her name was on it.
She got out, went around to the back, and opened the rear
door. Other than a spare tire and a jack, nothing. Wait. . . what's
that in the back, tucked away in the shadows? She reached in
and pulled out a folded white sheet with dark stains. As she
unrolled it, the spots brightened to the color of dried blood. She
could feel hard objects somewhere inside. A little more unwind-
ing and it would be open. There! Terror overtook her body like
the feel of thousands of hair-legged insects crawling over her
flesh, and she backed away. Inside the sheet was a blood-
splattered ball-peen hammer, a six-inch spike, and a sharp,
bloodied surgical knife.
She slammed the trunk shut.
Why were these in the car? She knew all about these tools.
84

Christ, she had read about them enough times in de Montret's
journal!
The rain was coming down faster now, and she began to shiver.
Holding her arms for warmth, she made her way back into the
cabin.
Inside, she quickly took off her drenched flannel nightgown
and wrapped her naked body in the bedspread.
Her eyes focused on the nightgown on the floor. She realized
that it didn't belong to her. It was made of a cheap flannel fabric
that was not her taste.
She went to the closet and opened it. There were several hang-
ers containing inexpensive cotton blouses and skirts. Everything
was in her size, and most of the tags were still on them, all
marked K mart. There was something else hanging at the end of
the closet. When she saw what it was, a swell of fear overtook
her and her legs almost gave in. She held onto the door for sup-
port and found it hard to breathe. After a few moments she began
to feel better, and she looked over to the end of the closet again.
What she saw on the hanger was a leather miniskirt with black
stockings folded up in its pocket. Yes, she remembered that outfit
well. How could she ever forget it?
Maura's eyes moved back to the cheap clothing on the hangers.
She was forced to wear garments like these when she was a child.
Her father didn't have the money to buy her anything better. She
remembered the stiff sizing on the shirts and how they'd cut into
her skin whenever she put them on. Why would she buy these
now?
There was that smell again.
Looking up, she saw a shelf with a glass jar containing a clear
fluid. There were things floating in the liquid. She reached up
and brought it down. It was too dark to see clearly so she turned
on the lamp next to the dresser.
Yes, now she could see better. There were grayish round things
the size of marbles suspended in the solution. The larger ones
seemed to have strings attached to them.
She placed the jar on the dresser and unscrewed the cap. The
familiar smell came rushing up to meet her.
Formaldehyde!
Now she remembered: her high-school biology lab. She used
to immerse her hands inside a jar filled with formaldehyde like
this and pull out the dead frogs for dissection.
Suddenly she recoiled in horror. If formaldehyde was used to

preserve dead things, then what's floating in this jar? Did the
bloodied scalpel in the car have anything to do with this?
No, she didn't want to know!
A wave of nausea overtook her, and she put her hands up to
her mouth. The smell was strongest on her hands, and she started
to retch, coughing up phlegm and bile.
My God! she thought. I must have had my hands in there!
What are they ?
Wiping her mouth with the bedspread, she moved closer to
the jar to get a better look. What she took to be strings on the
oval shapes before now looked like strips of skin. The shapes
were parts of animals. Perhaps glands, she couldn't tell for sure.
No, I don't want to know!
Suddenly a wave of tiredness overtook her. The ache in her
head eased into a distant throbbing. She needed to sleep, but she
was afraid.
I've got to sort this all out or I'll go mad! she said to herself.
Maura collapsed on the mattress. With the bedspread wrapped
around her, she crawled into a fetal position.
No, mustn 'tfall asleep. Sleep brings on the darkness and things
happen in the dark.
Piercing lights of different colors bounced around in her head;
then Martin with his dark, haunting eyes floated through her
mind.
Oh, Martin. Please come back. Please . . .
Wax. from seventeen candles quickly melting on pink-and-
white icing . . . white balloons Scotch-taped to pink crepe paper.
Bodies entwined, rhythmically swaying to "Nights in White
Satin" . . . French-kissing in dark corners of the den. Girls hud-
dling near the potato chips, giggling, chattering . . . boys clus-
tering together on the other side of the room, passing around the
Rock 'n' Rye, talking about the '49ers, while at the same time
taking quick, catlike glances at the girls.
A hand reaches out for her. Martin. She takes it and they try
to sneak out. Everyone sees ... a few even snicker.
Running across the field, past the vineyards, past the red ma-
dronas and the oak trees and the yellow grass. Laughter fills their
lungs.
The old winery up on the hill is made of heavy blocks of stone.
Her heart pounds wildly from fear and craving as Martin opens
the large wooden doors.
77

No, No! Too dangerous!
He takes her hand. She follows.
Laying on the cold cement floor, looking up she sees the
wooden beams crisscrossing, making diamond-shaped patterns
on the ceiling. Rice hulls and crushed grape skins stick to her
hair. The odor of sweet, pungent wine fermenting in oak barrels
... the steady hum of motors.
Martin's face now over hers, breathing heavy. Kissing her
mouth, her neck. The taste of Rock 'n' Rye and Clorets on his
lips ... the smell of Aqua Velva on his clothing.
Stroking her breasts, her nipples.
Stop, Martin, stop! Not here!
Opening the top part of her dress. Kissing . . . touching . . .
sucking. His fingers now on her knee moving upward.
Trying to push his hand away . . . Please, Martin . . . no! He
presses on. He loves her, she knows that. He has loved her since
they were children. She must trust someone other than Uncle
Wiggly and Daddy. She relents.
A gasp of pleasure bursts from her lips, and she throws her
arms around his neck.
His hand reaches the top of her underpants and pulls them
down. Fingers circling her inner thigh, working their way up to
her pubis, then to the silky patch of blond hair.
Her eyes close. Moans of I love you, Martin! I love you! Thank
you for loving me, for not caring . . .
Maura tried opening her eyes but they remained closed. She
wanted to get up, leave this strange cabin with its stench of form-
aldehyde, and go home. Her arms and legs felt like heavy steel
pipes; they wouldn't move no matter how hard she tried. As she
descended into the darkness, she prayed that she would wake up
in her Soho loft and discover that this was nothing but a horrible
nightmare.
78

TWO

Chapter Eight
_S
harp, whiplike cracks of lightning started around five in
the morning, followed by a violent cloudburst. The gutters
and spouts on Rena's roof were clogged with leaves from the
trees above her house, causing the water to come cascading down
on her deck outside her bedroom. It woke her from a restless
sleep.
Early for this time of year, she thought, rubbing her eyes.
September meant Santa Ana winds and hot weather in L. A., not
rain. She was angry at herself for putting off hiring a handyman
to clean out the gutters.
Just as well. Charlie has an eight o 'clockplane to catch. Better
leave early so we don't get caught in traffic. Charlie was lying
next to her, sleeping with his head under the covers.
She rolled over to his side of the bed, lifted the blanket off his
face, and ran her fingers through his hair. "Hey, get up," she
whispered in his ear. "We have to get you to Paris."
"Screw Paris," he groaned, pulling the covers back over his
head.
'' Come on, Charlie.'' She put her naked body against his back
and rubbed the inside of her leg along his thigh. "Get up."
Charlie peeked one eye out from under the blanket, grinned,
and said, "Guess what?"
Rena reached over his stomach, felt him and said, "Hmm. . .
so you are."
He turned around and they automatically came together. They
made love slowly and silendy—partly because her daughter's
bedroom was just down the hall, but also because that's the way
they liked doing it in the morning, with the heat from their bodies
trapped under the thick down comforter.
"It's nice going slow like this, Charlie," she moaned softly.
Different. . . warm . . . wet.
81

They usually had sex in his apartment, and it was always like
a turbulent vortex: ripping clothes off of each other's bodies;
scratching . . . clawing . . . biting; sweaty suctional sounds from
bellies pounding together and coming apart. Their lovemaking
always seemed like it was for the moment, the possibility that
this was not going to happen again added a special thrill.
She was attracted to Charlie right from the first. In fact, she
had never known any other man except her husband, Terry, that
could turn her on like this. These feelings frightened her just as
she knew they frightened Charlie. Her biggest fear was that these
powerful emotions might rise up like a tidal wave one day and
completely devour her. It had happened before when she was
married to Terry. The passionate love she felt for that man; then
the terrible pain when she found out about the other women; and
finally the agony of divorce. It had almost destroyed her. Like
Charlie, she also vowed never to let it happen again. Intellec-
tually she knew that these feelings were wrong. Because of the
anguish she had known with Terry, she believed that loving a
man totally was the ultimate enslavement. Was there such a thing
as passion without shackles? She didn't know, but Charlie came
the closest of any other man to that experience.
At first she thought it was safe to have an affair with him
because they were so different from one another; their life-styles
and upbringings were worlds apart. She was reared in luxury that
most girls only dreamed about. Charlie grew up differently: he
was orphaned at a young age and raised by his strict Catholic
aunt in a blue-collar section of Brooklyn. The streets were his
home, not country clubs and charity balls.
Rena knew that what they had between them might only be
temporary; she realized that there probably would be other lov-
ers. But right now, what they had was good, and she was not
ready to toss it away because of her mistrust of intimacy.
They made love for a long time this morning, oblivious to the
raging downpour outside.
Two hours later they said good-bye in the Bradley International
Terminal at LAX. As she watched the back of his head disappear
into the cabin of an Air France 747, she bit down on her lower
lip trying to force back the tears.
Damn, but I'm going to miss him! she thought.
At least there was one consolation: he was only going to Paris
for a month to attend a dreary conference on oil pricing. Nor-
mally he'd be going off to some country that few people have
82

ever heard of, reporting about wars and other forms of pesti-
lence. Sometimes he'd come back from these assignments pale
and shaken from the things he had seen. When that happened,
he usually picked up a half-gallon of J&B on his way back from
the airport, locked himself in his apartment, and didn't talk to
anyone for a week.
Outside the terminal the rain was still coming down heavy.
Rena took La Cienaga Boulevard back into Hollywood in order
to avoid the gridlock on the freeways.
Station KROS was a pink art-deco structure erected during the
early part of the forties and located on Sunset and Gower. For
the last four years Rena worked there three days a week as a
radio-talk-show psychologist. During that time she built up a
huge following and her program was on the verge of being syn-
dicated throughout the country.
She was early, which was fine with her because she needed to
go over today's program. Along with taking calls from her lis-
teners and giving them psychological advice on the air, she would
also discuss different ways to cope with the stress of everyday
living. Today she wanted to talk about sexual mistreatment of
females in the workplace and how to deal with it.
When she got out of the elevator on the fifth floor, one of the
secretaries stopped her and told her that three men were waiting
to see her in the conference room.
"Did they have an appointment?" Rena asked curiously.
"No. They talked to the station manager."
Interesting, Rena thought. No one was allowed this kind of
access during the day of a show. She wondered if it had anything
to do with Maura.
She immediately got her answer when she entered the confer-
ence room and saw Pinky Swangel's big, toothy grin. Looking
uncomfortable, he was seated around the rectangular marble ta-
ble along with two well-dressed men in suits. One of the men
had his hair combed in the style of John F. Kennedy. They stood
up as she came in.
"Hi ya, Rena," Pinky said warmly, the smile still pasted on
his face.
"Pinky, what are you doing here?" she asked, surprised to
see him.
"We need to talk with you, Rena." His tone was pensive and
the smile faded.
"You've found Maura," she whispered, expecting the worst.
83

Pinky shook his head, no.
Rena looked over at the middle-aged man with the Kennedy
haircut. He took out a leather folder with his picture and Federal
ID inside. He introduced himself as Agent Marvin Grant with
the FBI.
The other man, the one with the deep tan, wiry white hair,
and gold Rolex on his freckled wrist, grabbed her hand and shook
it heartily. He displayed a wide smile. "I'm Ray Scollari, district
attorney of Brooklyn
What's Scollari doing here? she wondered as she put her purse
and attache case down on the chair.
"We won't be very long," Grant said, smiling.
"Coffee, gentlemen?" Rena said, moving over to the Krupps
machine on the shelf.
The three men shook their heads. Rena took a mug from the
tray and filled it with coffee; she wanted to be as alert as possible.
"You're a long way from Brooklyn," she said, turning to Ray.
Smiling, he shook his head.' 'If one of my people is in trouble,
I don't leave them hanging."
His cagey eyes reminded her of a wild ferret. Rena instinc-
tively distrusted him.
"You are an intimate friend of Maura McKinney," Grant said.
"I'm a friend. I don't know if you can call it intimate." He
wasn't asking, he was making a statement, Rena realized. She
sat down on the leather chair directly opposite them and put her
cup on the marble table.
Pinky shifted his huge body anxiously around in a chair that
was too small for him. Rena knew his uneasiness was due to
being around men of Scollari's and Grant's stature.
"We know that she was supposed to meet you in Napa and
didn't show. Has she gotten in touch with you since then?" Ray
casually inquired.
"No, she hasn't," Rena answered, amazed at the question.
"Do you have any idea where she may be?" Grant asked,
leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table.
"No, I don't, Mr. Grant. Can you tell me what this is all
about?" she responded firmly.
"You know Sheriff Swangel, so I assume you must have some
inkling." He pointed his thumb at Pinky, and Pinky turned a
deep shade of red.
"I presume we're talking about the murder of Tomas Sanchez
in Napa and, perhaps, the girl on Long Island?"
84

"That is correct."
"Obviously you feel that Maura's involved in some way or you
wouldn't be here," Rena said, taking another sip of the coffee.
She was tired and she wished the damn caffeine would kick in.
"We're pretty sure that she is involved," Grant said.
"Why is that? Up until a minute ago I was under the illusion
that Maura was still considered a possible victim. What evidence
do you have that says differently?" Rena could feel the beating
of her heart.
Pinky and the agent looked at each other, then at Ray. They
all nodded silently as if a silent agreement had been reached
among them.
"All right, we'll tell you what we know and perhaps you can
help us in return," Grant said.
"How?"
"We need a psychological profile on her."
"I'm sure you have psychiatrists connected with the bureau
who do things like that," she said. "Maura also worked closely,
as far as I know, with Mr. Scollari for a number of years in the
prosecutor's office. He may be able to help you better than I
can."
"Our affiliation was on a professional level only," Scollari
said, again with that smile and animal stare.' 'Personal lives were
kept separate. As a prosecutor she was excellent. As an individ-
ual .. . well ..." Ray finished the statement with a shrug of
his shoulders. "She seemed distant, cold, sometimes displaying
a violent temper." He held out his bandaged wrist for everyone
to see. "She did this with her nails the night before she left for
California. We were having dinner together. I simply asked her
to join my campaign committee, that's all. I'm running for mayor
in the spring. She automatically assumed I wanted something
else from her and went absolutely crazy. Do you believe this?
Eight stitches. Caused a terrible scene in the restaurant."
"Did you?" Rena asked.
"Did I what?"
"Did you want something else from her?"
His paternal attitude quickly disappeared and the ferret look
came back strong. "That's uncalled for." His tan turned to a red
flush.
"I believe I have the right to ask," Rena stated simply.
"Then allow me the right to answer." He leaned toward her.
85

"The answer is an unequivocal'no.' I'm a happily married man.
All I wanted was her support and hard work in the primaries."
"And when you asked her for those things, she actually be-
came enraged?" she asked skeptically.
"Yes, she became enraged. In fact, that's putting it mildly."
His lips were strung tightly across his teeth. "Also, as far as I
could tell, I don't believe she liked men very much. I've known
her for years and never saw her with a man."
"None as far as you know," she said curtly. "Many profes-
sional people prefer to keep their sex lives out of the office."
She'd be damned if she was going to discuss Maura's sexual life
with someone like him.
Ray sat back in his chair with a smug, knowing look. It both-
ered her. From the corner of her eyes she saw the anger in Pinky's
face directed toward Scollari.
"What we're trying to bring out is that you're not only a close
friend of hers but you're also a psychologist. That gives you the
edge in knowing the internal workings of Maura McKinney bet-
ter than we do," Grant said, holding his hand up to stop Scollari
from saying anything more.
Rena thought for a few seconds, wondering if she would be
betraying Maura in any way. No, she finally realized. If Maura
did commit these grisly murders, then she's got to be stopped.
"All right, tell me what you know," she said to Grant.
Grant leaned back and said, "On September seventeenth, To-
mas Sanchez was murdered in the wine fields belonging to Miss
Maura McKinney. A spike, approximately one-half inch in di-
ameter, was driven between the first and second vertebra, sev-
ering the spinal cord. On September the fifteenth, Mary
Stevenson, a high school senior, was also murdered in the same
way and with the same weapon. Like the farm worker, her arms
and feet were tied to a vine, giving the appearance of a crucifix-
ion."
"How can you be sure that it was the same weapon? Do you
have it in your possession?" she asked.
"No ma'am. It was a three-edged spike with a deep nick on
one of the edges. Both victims had the same markings in their
wounds with that particular indent. There was also the presence
of the same metal filings in the two puncture wounds. Plus, the
cuts along the pelvic area of the woman and the deep slits in the
scrotum of the male appear to be made with the same sharp
instrument.
86

"Why Maura?" she whispered, not wanting to hear the an-
swer.
Pinky began to fidget in his chair causing it to creak.
Grant continued. "Traces of identical blond hairs were found
under the nails of Tomas Sanchez and Mary Stevenson. There
were also the same skin fragments discovered under the nails.
Obviously the victims put up some sort of struggle. The strands
of hair were literally ripped from someone's head which enabled
our lab to test for blood particles. The blood grouping found on
the hair was B-positive; that makes up ten percent of the popu-
lation. According to the American Red Cross, which Maura Mc-
Kinney donated to regularly, she was B-positive. That
automatically knocks out ninety percent of the populace as sus-
pects. Hair samples taken from the sheets on her bed in her New
York loft were an identical match to the ones found on the vic-
tims. We're waiting for the DNA fingerprinting results to get
back from Washington. With that, we'll have definitive proof that
Maura McKinney is the killer."
"How could she be in different places across the country in
that short period? She was a city prosecutor with a heavy sched-
ule." Rena noticed that her voice was quivering.
"It's possible," Grant said gravely. "The murder on Long
Island took place before Maura McKinney left for California.
The north fork of the island is only an hour-and-a-half drive from
the Soho district where she lives in Manhattan."
' 'What else?'' Rena asked. Jesus Christ! There had to be more.
"The porter at Santa Rosa's bus station in Northern California
remembers a blond woman answering to Maura McKinney's de-
scription buying a ticket the night of the 17th to Fort Bragg. Our
San Francisco office checked the motels and car-rental compa-
nies. An American Express card in her name was used to rent a
Ford station wagon in Fort Bragg. She then stayed at a hotel in
Mendocino called the Heritage House. She used her Visa card
to pay for that."
"It's the same hotel that the movie, Same Time, Next Year,
was filmed in," Scollari said, smiling.
Who gives a shit! Rena thought, glaring at Scollari.
Grant continued in his staccato voice. "Her credit cards were
also used to pay for restaurants in Mendocino. The last thing we
have is an American Express receipt from a realtor in Fortuna,
California who rented McKinney a cabin. We have samples of
her handwriting and signature taken from her office in New York;
87

it matches perfectly with those on the credit-card receipts. For
some reason she's heading north. Why, we don't know, but we
have men posted in Eureka and along the Oregon border."
Rena let out a quiet sigh. Where was Maura going? she won-
dered. Why north? She rubbed her eyes; the first cup of coffee
wasn't making it. This was turning into a nightmare. She went
over to the Krupps and refilled her mug.
"I think you should tell her what you found out about the
female victim," Ray said to Grant. Again he had a self-assured
look on his face.
"She was a known lesbian and frequented local gay bars on
Long Island."
"Mary Stevenson was only seventeen," Rena said. "How
was she allowed into bars?"
' 'She got in the same way most high school kids get into bars—
with a false ID. The girl was tiny—just over five feet, and weighed
less than one hundred and fifteen pounds. The bartender at the
Pink Monkey, a gay bar in East Hampton, remembers seeing her
leaving the place on the night of September the fifteenth with a
beautiful woman with long blond hair. He identified Maura Mc-
Kinney from a photograph I showed him taken off her driver's
license."
Rena looked away from Ray. She didn't want to see his haughty
stare.
"Anything else?" she asked them.
"That's what we have right now," Grant said.
"Then I guess it's my turn," she said. The large conference
room suddenly felt claustrophobic, as if there weren't enough air
in the room for all of them.
The three men waited.
"Did you know she may have been on a medication called
Parnate?" she said finally.
"Yes," Grant said. "We found the vial in her room, along
with your fingerprints on it."
Nothing gets past you guys, does it? she thought. "Then I'm
sure you already know that it's an antidepressant."
Grant nodded. "Yes, but we can't figure out how she got it.
There's never been a prescription given out by any doctor in her
name."
"That's very strange," Rena said surprised. "Parnate may not
be habit-forming, but the government has laws regulating its dis-
pensation." She then told them how long she had known Maura
88

and how they met.' 'When we were young we spent our summers
together. Then we went off to college and started our professional
careers on different coasts. We only saw each other again for a
short time when we vacationed together in Greece. But," she
said, staring at Ray Scollari,' 'when we were growing up together
I never found her to be distant or cold. Private perhaps, but that
was her prerogative." That wasn't altogether true, though, she
suddenly remembered: in Greece she was sullen and withdrawn.
Smiling, Ray shrugged in a way that said, "The facts speak
for themselves."
Rena could sense the hate Scollari had for Maura. She was
beginning to believe that he actually came to L.A. to bury her,
not to help her. She would have to watch what she said in front
of him.
"Did she have any lovers or boyfriends?" Ray asked, arching
his eyebrows.
"Yes . . . when she was growing up in Napa. I don't know
who she saw when she was living in New York."
"Who was her childhood beau?" Grant asked, taking out a
pad and pen from his jacket pocket.
"Martin Bynum."
"What happened to him?"
"He's dead. Killed by a burglar in his home when Maura was
seventeen."
Pinky coughed.
"Was the killer ever apprehended?" Grant asked.
"No. Her father was the prime suspect at the time."
"Interesting," Ray said, feigning surprise.
"How did it affect her?" Grant said, put off by Scollari's at-
titude.
"Like it would affect most seventeen-year-olds, I suppose.
Perhaps more with her. She was in the house when it happened.''
"What part of the house?" Grant asked.
"The bedroom."
"Were they making love at the time?" Ray inquired.
"I suppose. What difference does it make?" she said sharply.
' 'Martin heard a noise in his parent's bedroom. He went to look.
A few seconds later there was a shotgun blast. Maura was dozing
off in Martin's bed at the time. The sound awoke her and she got
up to see what happened. She discovered his body. Yes, I cer-
tainly would say it affected her. It would affect anyone who found
their lover with his head blown away. They were very close.
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Maura had loved Martin since they were children. There was
never even the thought of another man in her life." She looked
at Ray and saw his mouth twitch with anger. "When he died
. . . well ..." Rena paused, recalling that trying time. "I can
only give you a third-person hearsay since I went back to Los
Angeles to finish up my last year of high school the day after it
happened. I tried writing to her but she wouldn't answer any of
my letters. I was told by some of the locals that she stayed mostly
alone and hibernated in her house. She would go to school, but
that was it. Only four weeks after Martin's death her father died
in an automobile accident. He was inebriated. When I returned
to Napa the next summer I found out that she had already left for
New York. We didn't see each other again until we both gradu-
ated from college and met in Greece."
"How'd she do with the men in Greece?" Ray asked.
"I'm afraid I don't understand your question," Rena said
curtly. She stood up, leaned against the wall, folded her arms,
and glared at Scollari.
"No American girl goes to Greece, especially to the islands
to look at ruins," Ray said, smiling.
"Perhaps no girls that you would know, Mr. Scollari. Maura
happened to like ruins. She was different . . . brilliant ... in-
quisitive. She received a degree in Roman-Greco history from
Columbia."
"Odd that she would change horses in midstream and get a
law degree," Grant said.
"I think multitalented would be a better word than odd. Some
people do have more than one interest. Da Vinci managed to
construct canals and fortifications in his spare time between
painting The Last Supper and the Mona Lisa." Rena looked up
at the clock. "Gentlemen, I have to be on the air in forty-five
minutes. If you like I can write up a psychological profile on her
and fax it to you."
The three men, as if on cue, stood up.
"That would be helpful, Miss Halbrook. If we do happen to
find her and if there's some reason that we may need your help
during that time, would you be available?" Grant asked her.
Help in what way? Rena wondered. Then she understood: to
talk to Maura into giving up, in case she blockaded herself in a
house or had hostages. "Yes, I'll be available if you find Maura,"
she said with a dry mouth.
"I'm leaving for San Francisco to talk with their police de-
90

partment. Hopefully, we'll find her before someone else turns up
dead," Scollari said, straightening his tie around his starched
collar. The overhead light picked up the reflection off his gold
Rolex. "As I said, I don't let my people hang without helping
them."
Yeah, right, Mr. Scollari, Rena said to herself, watching him
leave the conference room.
"It's been a hell of a week," Pinky said with a heavy breath.
He was visibly upset. "You let me know when you're coming
back up to Napa, you hear?'' He grabbed both of her arms in his
paw-like hands and gave them a gentle squeeze. Then he leaned
into her and whispered, "That guy Scollari is one hell of an
asshole, ain't he?"
Rena smiled at his remark. Pinky had said to her the first day
she saw him that he would never tell which one of them he had
a crush on as a kid. It had to be Maura. Yes, definitely Maura.
He gets red as a beet and sweat breaks out on his brow every
time her name is mentioned. "One question, Pinky. Has anyone
figured out why the trail of blood stopped so abruptly next to
Maura's spring."
"Yeah, we think so. At least the boys from Washington think
they do," he said, turning his head in the direction of Grant,
who was waiting outside. "Tomas Sanchez was either dragged
by someone or crawled by himself those few feet. Then a tarp or
something was probably wrapped around him so the murderer
wouldn't get soaked with his blood. It looks like he was carried
the distance to the vineyards."
"How do you know?"
"Footprints." He put his hand on Rena's shoulder and said
somberly, "Sets of shoeless footprints beginning at the area
where the blood stopped were deeply cut into the wet soil around
the spring. That's where she picked Sanchez up and carried him.
The prints belonged to a woman. They were a size seven, the
same size as Maura's shoes that we found in her room. Hell,
Rena, I'm sorry about all this. You know I'd give anything if it
wasn't her." He looked despondent and tired.
"I know that, Pinky. It's still a long distance for a woman or
anyone else for that matter to carry someone."
"You saw that idiot, Scollari's wrist, didn't you? She dug her
nails all the way into it. He told us he tried breaking her grip but
couldn't. He said that he never met a woman as strong as her
before." He looked over to Scollari and saw the impatient ex-
91

pression painted on his face as he held the elevator door open
waiting for him. "I guess I got to go. I wish these guys would
get out of my county so I can go back to scraping upscale drunks
off of Highway 128. I'm good at that."
Rena kissed Pinky on the cheek and told him she'd call him.
When they were gone, Rena went into her office and locked
the door. So many thoughts and emotions were stirring inside
her head. She took a yellow legal pad from her file cabinet and
made a list of questions:
1)		How badly did Martin's death affect Maura's psyche?
a: Did the anger over his death transform itself into a
psychosis?
b: If so, why didn't I see it?
2)		Why did she drop her art studies? She loved Grecian art
almost as much as she did Martin.
3)		The murders: bodies draped over vines . . . sexual organs
removed. Happened during the harvesting of the grapes.
Was there something ceremonial about all this?
a: If it was ritualism, does it have a base in history?
4)		Knowledge of the human anatomy and skill with surgical
tools essential in order to perform the castrations. Where
did Maura learn this?
5)		Both victims were slight of build. Why? Was it because it
was easier for a tall woman like Maura to overpower them
and move the bodies?
6)		Why a lesbian? Was she one herself or did she have a hate
for homosexuals ... or perhaps a gay bar was the easiest
place to choose a female victim?
Rena tapped the pencil on the desktop and leaned back in her
chair. Shit, Maura! What happened to you? What kind of can-
cerous hate had built up inside you for all these years to make
you kill like this? Bits and pieces of memories about Maura in
Athens began reassembling themselves in her head.
"Oh my God, that's her!" Rena screamed, when she saw
Maura getting off the tram bus that took the passengers from the
tarmac into the customs area of the Athens terminal. She jumped
up and down, waving frantically, until Maura saw her.
She's changed, she thought, as she watched Maura take out
her passport and hand it to the Greek official. There was some-
92

thing older and more pensive about her face than there was be-
fore, and the fire that used to burn in her eyes seemed dimmed.
After Maura cleared customs, Rena rushed over to her and
threw her arms around her neck. They hugged and giggled.
"You're even prettier than you were five years ago!" Maura
said, stepping back and looking at Rena.
"Compared to you I'd be lucky if someone even noticed I was
alive," Rena said teasingly. It was hard to believe, but Maura
had grown more beautiful.
Arm in arm they walked through the Athens airport, talking
over each other's sentences, trying to bridge the five-year gap.
After retrieving Maura's suitcases, they took a cab to their
hotel near Omonia Square. Their room overlooked the noisy
shopping section of Stadiou Street. When Rena opened the win-
dow to let in air, the sounds and smells of Athens came soaring
into their room to greet them.
"I love you, Athena!" Rena shouted to the polluted sky, rais-
ing her fists in the air.
Maura went over to the window, put her arm around Rena's
shoulder, and looked down at the dirty street with vendors hawk-
ing their wares. "I don't think this is what Athena had in mind
when her subjects built the Acropolis for her as a sanctuary,"
she said with academic authority.
"What's a little dirt!" Rena said, laughing. "What counts is
that we're both twenty-one and finally free from those goddamn
scholastic obligations!" She went over to the bed and plopped
down. "Three glorious weeks! Just the two of us looking at ruins
and sunbathing on Greek islands. What more could we want?"
Maura didn't answer; she continued to stare out at the crowded
street below. There was a shadow of sadness around her eyes,
and Rena couldn't help but notice it.
If Maura wants to talk about what's bothering her, she will.
Don't rush it, Rena thought.
That evening they sat in the open-air theater of Herodes Atti-
cus and listened to the works of Chopin played by the Athens
State Orchestra. The night was extraordinarily balmy, and even
the full moon managed to break through the thick polluted sky
encasing everything it touched in its yellow glow. Rena closed
her eyes and leaned her head back on Maura's stomach, letting
the music overwhelm her senses. It was a night she didn't want
to end.
The next day they woke early. They wanted to get to the Na-
93

tional Archaeological Museum before it became jammed with
tourists.
Once inside the large museum, Rena somehow got separated
from Maura. She had become so entranced in the abundance of
early artifacts that when she finally looked up, her friend was not
by her side. Rena retraced her steps through the crowded, wind-
ing hallways. Eventually she found her in a dimly lit, deserted
room on the third floor.
Maura was staring, almost trancelike, at the ancient statues of
the fertility gods: Eros, Psyche, Aphrodite, and Priapus. Over in
the corner, standing alone, was a primordial bronze statuette
showing Zeus with four rows of breasts.
Even though the temperature was soaring outside, Rena felt a
chill in this room.
"Maura," Rena said, walking over to her and tapping her on
the shoulder.
She didn't respond.
"Maura!" For some unexplained reason Rena wanted to get
her friend and leave.
Slowly Maura turned. Her eyes, even though they were di-
rected upon Rena, seemed to be focusing inwardly on some-
thing.
Then suddenly she smiled. "Yes, Rena, what is it?" she said
gently.
' 'Where were you?''
"Here," she said happily, turning back to the statues. She
held her hand out and touched Priapus, with his grotesque head
and large phallus. "I feel as if I belong here—that I've finally
come home."
Her face glowed in a mask of serenity. Rena had never seen
her look as beautiful and as peaceful as she did now.
"If this is home then don't expect me to be paying you too
many visits," she said, shuddering from the cold.
Maura laughed, and for a second that fire from her old self
was back in her eyes. "I guess that's what happens to you when
you break your ass studying about these characters. You begin to
feel that they're part of your family," she said jokingly.
After leaving the museum, they bought cheese, pita bread,
and a bottle of retsina and climbed to the top of Mount Lycabet-
tus for a picnic. They ate on a hillside next to the chapel of St.
George overlooking the city of Athens. The smog was bearable
94

today, and even the mountains of Peloponnesos to the west could
be seen.
Holding her glass of wine, Maura walked over to the terrace
of the chapel and looked down over the old and new portions of
the city. Again her eyes were drawn inward.
Several minutes went by like this; then she said quietly, "Did
you know that the original inhabitants of this country worshiped
a woman. She was known as the Great Triple Goddess."
"Triple, like in the Christian Trinity?"
"Yes. It's amazing how important the number three plays in
theologies. It's as if all religions branched out from each other.
Thousands of years ago in pre-Hellenic times the queen each year
would take a lover. Then when the year was up he would be
sacrificed and his blood poured over the crops. Her priestesses
would then eat his flesh. From this cannibalistic ritual sprang the
greatness that was Greece." Again silence . . . then, "At least
the queen had a year with her lover before she devoured him."
Her voice was melancholic.
Is she blaming herself for Martin's death? Rena wondered.
"We never talked about Martin," Rena said softly as she walked
over to her.
Maura turned to Rena, her face suddenly becoming hard and
angry. "That's one subject we don't talk about, understand?"
Rena drew back. She was about to tell her that it would be
better to talk about it, but Maura had already started her descent
down the mountain.'
"Maura ..." Rena called after her.
Without stopping, Maura screamed back with tears in her eyes,
"If you want to be my friend, never mention him again!"
My God! She is blaming herself, she thought as she watched
her rush down the steps.
"You got your wish, Maura," Rena said out loud. Martin was
never brought up again.
She looked at the pad and underlined the question about ri-
tualisms. If the murders in the wine fields were ceremonial, then
how far back did they go? To ancient Greece? Once again Rena
remembered the distant look on Maura's face that day in Athens
when she described the blood of the queen's lovers being poured
over the crops. Grapes were crops, too, weren't they? Was there
a similarity between then and now?
She looked at the first question she wrote down, and a sick
95

feeling began to develop in the pit of her stomach. She underlined
it twice:
1) How badlyjdky^artin's death affect Maura's psyche?
This will have to wait, she thought, pushing away the pad. She
had a show to do in a few minutes. I'm going to have to wing it
today. That's all right; she had done it before.
As she left her office and walked down the hall to the radio
booth, she knew that the answers to those questions and more
were buried somewhere in the Napa hills and possibly even in
primeval Greece.
Chapter Nine
_A
rnie Baker carefully backed his semi into the space out-
side of Billy's Diner in Yakima, Washington. He wedged it
in-between two larger trucks with inches to spare. Damn, but
I'm good! he thought. Best fuckin' trucker in the Northwest!
Too bad nobody else appreciated his talent. You 're too small,
Arnie, they'd say, shaking their heads. No way you could get those
redwoods from here to Nebraska. What if your truck jackknifes
on a deserted stretch of road? Who's going to move those trees?
You ? Grow afoot and put on a hundred pounds then come back.
Then they'd laugh and Arnie would get pissed, giving them the
finger as he walked out of their offices.
"Fuck 'em all!" he said out loud as he grabbed his leather
jacket from the back of the truck and hopped out.
Fortunately it was the harvesting season, and Arnie got a job
hauling grapes to a winery in Sonoma from a Yakima vineyard.
He'd been doing this for the last five years; at least it paid the
rent for a couple of months. Except it wasn't lumber he was
transporting, and lumber was the test of a real trucker.
Fuck 'em all!
96

It was nippy out tonight, and the air had a wet feel to it. Gonna
rain. Always rains up here. Would'a stayed put in Yuma, 'cept
the place was crawling with too many goddamn Indians! Hell, at
least it never rained there!
Arnie locked the door of his truck, pulled up the collar of his
jacket, and went into the diner.
It was almost empty except for three truckers standing around
a girl sitting in a booth at the end of the cafe. It was one-thirty
in the morning, and most of the other drivers were asleep in their
trucks outside.
He turned around and tried to see what the girl looked like,
but one of the men with a beer belly was hovering over her,
blocking his view.
No big deal. Just some fifty-dollar hooker, he thought. They
hang out in every truck stop across the country.
Arnie ordered the meat loaf with mashed potatoes and a cup
of coffee. As he took his jacket off and put it next to him, he
glanced up at the shiny aluminum siding of the shelf directly
across the counter and saw in it the reflection of the girl in the
booth. Nobody was blocking his view from this angle and he
could clearly see her. She was a beauty! Long blond hair . . .
tall. . . slim body. Jesus! What the hell was she doin' in a place
like thisT She could be makin' big bucks workin' in the city.
The men were leaning over the booth now, talking to her,
laughing. She just shook her head like she was uninterested.
Those guys are probably trying to Jew her down on the price.
What assholes! A looker like that don't come along every day! If
it was me she was talkin' to, I'd give her whatever she wanted!
His meat loaf came, and he drowned it in ketchup to deaden
the flavor. He knew meat loaf in diners meant anything left over
from the day before, or even the day before that, and he didn't
want to have to taste that anything.
While eating, he kept looking up at the aluminum shelf to see
what was happening. By this time the men had given up on her
and gone back to their own booth. The girl seemed to be staring
directly his way now. Was that a smile on her face?
Aw, bullshit! He looked back down at his plate. Nothing like
that would be smiling at him. Even his wife, Elke, a two-hundred-
pound woman he met when he was stationed in Germany during
a four-year hitch in the army, wasn't worried that he'd be fooling
around on the road. "Mein klein mensch, you're too small for
97

other women to love," she'd coo to him while he straddled her
lap, sucking on those Teutonic breasts of hers.
Arnie's eyes, as if they had minds of their own, involuntarily
went back up to the metal shelf.
She was looking at him!
Jeez! Again he turned away. The food began to feel like gummy
oatmeal in his mouth, and he had a hard time getting it to slide
down his throat. Shit! She was making him too nervous to eat.
Oh Christ! She's getting up and comin' this way!
As she sauntered closer to him, he could see that she was
wearing a tight, black leather miniskirt and a black sweater that
stretched firmly across her erect nipples. Her legs were long, and
her skin looked smooth and inviting.
Oh, man! Arnie peeked at his reflection in the aluminum shelf.
With a shaking hand, he quickly fixed some hairs that had fallen
out of place in his wavy pompadour and smoothed down his
sideburns that came to the edge of his ears. At least he had worn
his new, green-checkered flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up
around his biceps. A black panther with red scratch marks was
tattooed on his arm, and she couldn't miss seeing it. Stiffening
his biceps, he also hoped she'd notice that he had some muscular
definition to his thin arms.
He could smell her cheap perfume, and he knew that she was
now standing directly over him. He was getting an erection.
Clearing his throat, he turned to her and grinned. She grinned
back. Then Arnie's smile froze on his face when he looked up
into her eyes—one blue and the other brown. He didn't know
why, but a coldness suddenly went through him and his erection
started to shrivel. Fighting off the feeling, he removed his jacket
from the stool next to him, making room for her to sit down.
The next morning, several miles from the truck stop, Mario
Pandini pushed the screen door open and hobbled slowly out of
his small house. He dragged his arthritic legs down the wooden
steps and made his way to the toolshed across from his small
patch of vineyards. He was seventy-five years old, and every year
the harvesting took a toll on his twisted body. This would be his
last year, because next week he was going to put an ad in the
Yakima newspaper saying that his winery was up for sale. The
vineyards had been good to him and his wife for the last fifty
years, but now they really needed a younger man to run them.
Mario took a small ax from the tool bin and went into his
98

vineyard. Blight had touched some of the vines, and he needed
to shear the bark off before it spread.
Suddenly what he saw several feet in front of him made him
get down on his knees and cross himself. "Jesu Cnristo!" he
whispered in reverence.
What his old eyes beheld was a man tied to the cross section
of a vine. His arms were spread out parallel to the earth, and his
head was tilted to one side. He was wearing a loincloth and blood
trickled down his legs.
Again Mario crossed himself. It was a miracle, like what hap-
pened in Fatima and Lourdes. Now it was happening to him!
Tears came to his eyes. The Lord had come to his vineyards!
Then he heard a painful moan coming from deep within the
man's throat. Mario, still on his knees, dragged his body nearer
to him. The mouth of the Christo image was now moving, spit-
ting out blood as he tried to speak. A gurgling sound, like a child
blowing bubbles through a straw in a glass of milk came from
his parched lips.
Mario crawled even closer, his gnarled body filled with awe.
The figure opened his eyes and looked at Mario. Again he
opened his mouth. Little bubbles of blood ran out and dribbled
down his chin.
Then Mario noticed that it wasn't a loincloth he was wearing,
but white briefs covered in blood. The word Jockey was printed
on its elastic band. He put his ear up close to the red mouth so
he could try and make out what the Christ man was saying. Mario
couldn't be sure because he didn't put his hearing aid in this
morning, but it sounded like: "Get. . . me. . . fuckoffahere!"
Chapter Ten
*You'_re dawdling today. Why?" Rena asked Cathy,
M. who was sitting halfway slumped over her oatmeal.
With her elbow up on the breakfast table and her head resting
99

on her hand, Cathy just shrugged in response. She was lazily
twirling her spoon around in the oatmeal, making circular pat-
terns in it. "Life's a bitch," she said finally.
"At times, yes, it definitely can be," Rena said, rolling her
eyes as she brought the toast and marmalade over to the table.
She sensed it was going to be one of those mornings.
"Do you ever miss Dad?" She stopped playing with the oat-
meal and looked up at her mother.
It absolutely was going to be one of those mornings. "Some-
times," she answered. It was partially true. She remembered
how deeply she cared for him at one time. When you 're young,
love can be so strong and all-consuming. That kind of passion
used to cut deep into her marrow and made her feel so helpless,
and yet, at the same time so alive. Part of those feelings she did
miss, and she could never evoke them again, not even with Char-
lie. Except what she had with Charlie right now was better; they
were on equal footing with one another. With Terry she always
felt victimized, defenseless. That was some shitty way to live,
she thought, thinking back.
"You never go to his grave," Cathy said.
"No, Idon't." Rena spread the orange marmalade evenly over
her toast. "Your father and I had gone our separate ways, both
emotionally and physically, long before he died. The only thing
we had that formed any link between us was you."
"Do you still have that link?"
Rena looked into Cathy's deep, beautiful green eyes ... the
same beautiful green eyes of her father. "Yes," she said, sigh-
ing. "Because when I see you I also see him. Nothing is ever
completely lost in this universe." The truth about Terry, the
cruelty he inflicted on her and everyone surrounding her, would
remain locked away inside Rena. Cathy was never to know about
that. Never!
Cathy's eyes moistened. She suddenly broke out into a grin,
stood up, and hugged her mother. "I love you, Mom."
Rena returned the hug. "I know, sweetheart."
The phone rang.
"I'll get it," Cathy said, going over to the wall phone next to
the refrigerator. "It's for you, Mom," she said, after asking who
it was.
"Who is it?"
"Says his name is Grant."
100

The FBI agent! A nervous ache cut through Rena. She took
the phone from Cathy. Had they found Maura?
"Yes?" she said, trying to control her voice.
"I asked you yesterday if you would be available in case we
needed your help."
His voice was thin, as if he was calling from some distance.
"Have you found her?" she asked quietly.
"No, but we're close . . . real close!"
"How can I help you?"
"She hit again. A truck driver was found mutilated up in Ya-
kima, Washington early this morning. This time we got lucky—
he's still alive. They're operating on him right now. I have a
private Cessna at the Santa Monica airport waiting to fly you up
here."
Rena thought about it for a few seconds, then said, "Let me
call my replacement for my radio program. I'll be at the airport
within an hour."
Rena hung up and phoned Doctor Janis Skinner, asking if she
would fill in for her. She was a good psychologist and was well
liked by the audience. She then called the station and told them
of today's substitution. Rena also tried the number of Cindy, a
UCLA college girl who lived down the street from them. She
sometimes spent the night with Cathy when Rena was away on
short business trips. The girl hadn't left for classes yet and said
she would stay with her.
"What's going on, Mom?" Cathy asked, when Rena hung up.
"I won't be home tonight. Cindy will be here when you get
back from school."
Cathy's eyes brightened. She liked Cindy. "Where are you
going?"
' 'The state of Washington,'' she said, rushing upstairs to pack.
"What's in Washington?" Cathy yelled up to her from the
bottom of the steps.
"I don't know yet. Finish your breakfast or you'll be late for
classes. Before you leave I expect a hug and a kiss," Rena said
as she grabbed her overnight bag from the top shelf in her closet.
The phone rang again and Rena answered. It was Blythe
Famsworth.
"Where are you?" Rena asked, surprised by the call.
"In Palm Springs. I'm dying a slow death here. If I see another
man walking around in a pink sport jacket and red pants, I'll
101

scream. I thought I'd come to L.A., buy out Rodeo Drive, and
stay in town for the night."
"Where's Edmond?"
"Out on the green. Edmond lives to play golf. What are you
doing for dinner tonight?"
Rena could hear the despondency in her voice, but she had no
time right now to cheer up this lonely woman. She should have
seen what Edmond's life was all about before she married him.
"I can't tonight. Maybe next week," she said to her.
After she hung up on Blythe, she began to pack her overnight
bag. When I find the time, I'll definitely have a talk with her,
Rena thought to herself. The woman is bright and pleading for
something to do with her life.
Rena took Bundy Drive to the Santa Monica airport and parked
her car near the main entrance. It was a small airport with row
upon row of private planes.
Rena spotted a younger version of agent Grant waiting for her
in the terminal. He also wore his hair in a JFK cut. As she walked
over to him, she wondered if J. Edgar Hoover would have ap-
proved of his agents trying to emulate Kennedy, his archenemy.
The young agent shook hands with her and took her bag. They
then walked out onto the runway and boarded a six-passenger
Cessna.
T\vo hours later they landed at a private airfield outside of
Yakima. A Ford van was waiting to take them the short distance
to Memorial Hospital in the city.
On the seventh floor of the hospital, Agent Grant stood by the
elevator smoking a cigarette with his suit jacket off and his sleeves
rolled up. He hadn't slept or showered for two days; dark circles
surrounded his eyes, and his usually well-groomed hair was mat-
ted and uncombed. The doors opened and Rena and the young
agent stepped out. Grant squashed his cigarette in the ashtray
and shook hands with her.
' 'Thanks for coming,'' he said as they walked to Arnie Baker's
room.
"Can he talk?" she asked him.
"Barely. The spike missed the spinal column but nicked his
Adam's apple. Claims the woman was a prostitute and made
advances toward him. This was around one-thirty in the morn-
ing. They agreed on a price, and he followed her to a deserted
area of a wine field. He said she took out a blanket and a large
bag from the trunk of her car, a white Ford station wagon, and
102

told him to lay down on the blanket. Baker thinks he may have
had sexual contact with her before he passed out, he can't be
sure. We think he did, too."
"How could you tell?"
Grant stopped at the door where a uniformed policeman stood
outside. ' 'Traces of vaginal fluid were present on his organ. There
were also traces of skin fragments under his nails. We're going
to conduct a DNA fingerprinting test in our Washington lab to
see if the fluid matches up with the genetic bands from her hair
particles and skin that we found on him and the other victims. If
it does, then we have more than enough for a conviction. Damn!''
he said, shedding his reserve. "All this happened less than ten
hours ago. She's so close I can almost feel her!"
"Ten hours can put her deep inside Canada," Rena said,
thinking how close they were to the border.
"We thought about that. The border routes have been sealed
off. She can't get out that way."
"You said the same thing about the California/Oregon bor-
der," Rena said skeptically.
They went into the room where Arnie Baker lay on a bed with
tubes attached to his nose and arm. A thick bandage with a
spreading red stain was wrapped around his neck. Two other FBI
agents were also inside the hospital room, and a nurse who was
monitoring his pulse.
Arnie's eyes were slits that were straining to stay open.
"Mr. Baker, are you awake?" Grant asked, bending down
next to him and taking out a small picture from the breast pocket
of his shirt.
"Yeah," Amie mumbled. His voice was low and hoarse.
"I have a photo I'd like you to take a look at." He held up a
photograph of Maura that was on her city prosecutor's ID. Arnie
forced his eyes open for a second, looked, then nodded.
"That's her ... the cunt," he groaned in pain, closing his
eyes again. "Elke gonna kill me."
"Who's Elke?" Rena asked.
"His wife," Grant whispered.
Rena noticed how small he was as he lay prone in the hospital
bed.
"Did she say where she was going after Yakima?" Grant
asked.
Arnie opened his mouth, but only a rasping breath came out.
103

His teeth were red with fresh blood from the wound that re-
opened again in his throat.
The nurse gave Grant a hostile stare.
Grant lowered his head, hoping to make out what Arnie was
saying. "I'm sorry, I can't understand you."
This time Arnie mouthed the word, "Seattle."
"Thank you, Mr. Baker. We'll let you rest now," he said,
putting the photo back into his pocket and standing up.
"He's small," Rena said to Grant as they went out into the
hallway.
"Like all the rest. I doubt very much that she's going to Se-
attle. At least we know how she immobilizes her victims. The
last thing he remembered, he said, was the feel of a wet rag on
his face. When he was brought to the hospital, the medical staff
found his blood pressure to be abnormally low, which can be a
symptom of certain anesthetics. They conducted tests. Chloro-
form was found in his system."
"May I see the picture of Maura?" Rena asked.
"Sure." He took it out of his pocket and handed it to her.
It was a typical passport-type photo—a forced trace of a smile
with no personality underneath. "It's not a great likeness," Rena
said. It was Maura, though, she knew that.
"That, plus the one on her driver's license, are the only pho-
tographs we have of her."
Rena nodded, knowing that Maura hated having her picture
taken. It was as if she were embarrassed and felt unworthy of
being beautiful.
"When was the last time you saw her?" Grant asked, lighting
up a Winston.
' 'Twelve years ago.''
"People change in twelve years," he said, taking a deep drag
on the cigarette.
"True." She seemed older, as if stress began taking its toll
on her, but she still looked beautiful.
"She told Arnold Baker her name was Jasmine Dawn," he
said skeptically.
Rena gasped. "Oh, Christ!"
"What's the matter?" he asked.
"Maura was given a Barbie doll when she was a child. She
hated the name Barbie, so she renamed it Jasmine Dawn. She
also hated those cute little outfits that came with it and she made
her own clothes for the doll."
104

"What kind of clothes?"
"Maura had a bizarre sense of humor. Instead of cute, she
went the other way and dressed her up to look like a hooker. She
made a black miniskirt for her. Miniskirts were in style then."
Grant didn't say anything for a while, but she could see his
mind working. Then he said, "Mr. Baker stated that she wore a
tight, black leather miniskirt with a black sweater. He also said
that she had two different colored eyes. Do you know anything
about that?"
Rena looked at him, stunned. She then told him how she got
a brief glimpse of those multicolored eyes when they were in
Greece together. "I thought I was imagining it," she said.
' 'It may just be possible that there's a whole part to this woman
that you don't know.''
"Very possible," she said, almost in a whisper. Last night
she had tried to compose a psychological profile on Maura and
found it difficult. There were too many voids about her that
needed to be filled, and the long gap between their seeing each
other didn't help. She could be outgoing and vivacious one min-
ute and withdrawn and sulky the next. Rena realized something
else: as talkative as Maura could be, it was always about things,
events, and other people, never about herself. Maura would ask
such detailed, intimate questions about Rena's personal life that
by the time she answered all of them there would never be enough
time to ask her the same questions back. She was so good at tap
dancing and weaving spells with her unique persona that Rena
used to walk away feeling at one with her, yet at the same time
never really knowing her at all.
Rena always had the sensation that Maura was hiding some-
thing from the world . . . something deep and forbidden. But
what? What could be so terrible? And was it coming out now?
Scattered visions of them playing in Peter McKinney's attic
flew by in her memory.
Dust particles floating lazily through filtered sunlit windows
... a naked light bulb . . . loose plank floors ... the smell of
camphor. Maura going through her mother's clothes that were
hanging on the rusty metal rack. She takes a cotton flowered
dress with shoulder pads off a wire hanger and pulls it over her
head. Rena wears an old, moth-eaten coat with black lambs wool
on the lapels and sleeves. An overly large, black veiled hat hangs
down over her eyes. She sits on a wooden trunk in the middle of
105

the attic and giggles at Maura, watching her as she puts on faded
pink satin high heels and tries to walk. Her little legs quiver when
they try supporting themselves in the oversized shoes. Maura
finds a tattered makeup case next to the rack. She bends down
and takes out a gold lipstick container, opens it up, and covers
her mouth with crooked red streaks. Rena grabs the puff and pats
her face with tan powder. She coughs. The girls laugh.
Footsteps ascending the stairs.
Peter McKinney enters the dusty, mold-covered attic. The
smell of whiskey is strong on his breath. He looks at Maura, and
his face turns red with rage. His eyes fill with fury and his mouth
opens, exposing strong white teeth with a large gap in the front.
A thunderous yell erupts from the depths of his soul and he slaps
Maura hard on the face. She reels back from the blow, then
defiantly glares at him. Rena freezes with terror.
He looks at Rena. "Get those things off!" he screams at her.
She slides out of the coat and it drops to the floor.
"Now get out!" he hisses. His back is bent, and his drunken
eyes are bulging and red from the alcohol.
Frightened, Rena races past him and down the steps. As she
runs out the door, she hears Peter McKinney scream at Maura,
"You witch! You bloody witch! They died because of you!"
So long ago, Rena thought. Peter McKinney apologized to her
when he was sober the next day. Maura, her face puffy with red
welts from the slap, shrugged her shoulders and didn't want to
talk about it when Rena tried bringing up the incident. That was
the first and only time Maura had ever taken her to play in the
attic.
They died because of you! McKinney had said to Maura. Who
were they? Rena always asked herself. She never had the nerve
to ask Maura when they were children. Was he talking about the
death of his wife during childbirth? Probably. What a cruel thing
to say to a child.
But McKinney had said' 'they.'' Who else had died? She won-
dered.
And why is she calling herself Jasmine Dawn? It was a name
she gave to a doll twenty years ago. She was a lonely child then,
inventing features for the doll that were directly opposite of her-
self. It was supposed to have been just a joke, but Rena believed
that Jasmine Dawn was a subconscious extension of Maura that
she had never allowed to emerge. The Madonna/whore syn-
106

drome. As far as Rena knew, Maura was anything but loose with
men. The only man she ever slept with during her years in Napa
was Martin By num. Had she changed since she moved to New
York? Rena didn't think so. Ray Scollari certainly attested to that.
Rena knew that deep sexual suppression can cause dual person-
alities within an individual. Is that what happened to Maura? Was
there always a Jasmine Dawn in her psyche waiting to come out?
Right now, that was the only answer that made sense.
An agent walked over to them holding a portable telephone.
"It's from Napa. They may have found something at the McKin-
ney winery."
Grant took the phone. He listened, and after a few, "Uh-
huhs," said he would be right there. Hanging up, he looked at
Rena and said, "My men found some papers in the desk drawer
of the McKinney winery. They said they're important. Want to
come?"
There was a strange, ambiguous look on Grant's face. What
kind of papers? she wondered. Yes, she certainly did want to
come.
This time, Rena sat in the inside section of the van with Grant
and the young agent as they made their way back to the airport.
The walls of the van were lined with computer equipment, mon-
itors, and radio gear. On a small table in the middle of the floor
was a map of the United States with three bright yellow pins
signifying the areas where the murders and mutilations were
committed. Looking at it, Rena now also felt that they were
close, and like Grant she could almost feel Maura's breath on
her neck.
"What kind of papers were found?" she asked Grant.
"It seems to be a journal," he said, still with the same con-
fusion on his face.
"Maura's?"
"No, this one my men say is two hundred years old."
107

Chapter Eleven
_T
he driver of the Ford Fairlane that picked Rena and the
two FBI men up at Napa airport wasted no time in getting
them to the McKinney winery. He zigzagged in and out of the
two jammed lanes on Highway 29, sending BMWs and Volvos
scampering out of his way.
They got out of the car on a dirt pathway leading off of Spring
Mountain Road and walked up the hill to the old stone winery.
Several police and government cars lined the area. The local
sheriff's department and federal agents with plastic containers
carefully combed the bushes next to the building looking for
foreign objects. Over by the door, a man in a white smock dusted
the metal handle and lock for fingerprints.
An unsettling feeling of deja vu descended upon Rena as she
remembered walking this path and entering this winery hundreds
of times before with Maura. Pictures of their youth, like splices
of film in an editing machine, quickly entered then exited her
head.
"Don't touch anything," Grant said to her. "Walk where I
walk."
Inside the stone building a gray light filtered through the open
door catching thousands of dust particles dancing wildly in mid-
air. There was a sour smell about the winery, like the interior of
a long-closed crypt that had been broken into. A carpet of dust
covered everything, and cobwebs hung from the corners of the
cross beams.
The large oak fermenting barrels and the old wooden presser
were still where she remembered them.
Nothing had changed, she thought. It was so different from
Simon's ultramodern, computer-run winery. With just this basic
equipment and his powerfiil hands, Peter McKinney had pro-
108

duced vintage wines that other expensive wineries could only
dream about.
She took a pair of thin rubber surgical gloves from one of the
agents and put them on. In McKinney's old office at the other
end of the winery a group of technicians stood over the desk
shining a light on something. They all wore gloves. When they
saw Grant, they moved out of the way to make room for him.
"What do we have here?" Grant asked.
"Appears to be a journal of some kind," one of the lab men
replied. "We found it in the bottom desk drawer. It looks like it
was recently put in here. There's no dust on it."
Rena noticed the splintered remains of the drawer on the floor.
She looked over Grant's shoulder and saw the book. The cover
was black with squiggly white lines.
"This can't be two hundred years old," Grant said, annoyed.
"It looks like the kind of notebook I used in grade school."
"It contains a translation from a two-hundred-year-old diary,
sir," the lab man said. "This man Striker, whoever he is, seems
to be the translator. His notes explain that he did this in Nineteen
forty-three. From the condition of this notebook I'd say that part's
accurate. We'll do further testing on it when we get it back to the
lab. It seems like a couple of pages at the end of the book have
been torn out."
"Has it been dusted for prints?" Grant asked.
"No, not yet."
"What does this have to do with the vineyard murders?"
The technicians and FBI men looked at each other, then one
of them said, "If the contents of this diary are accurate, then a
man named Baron Gustave de Montret had been killing people
in the vineyards of France over two hundred years ago."
There was a stunned look on Grant's face. "How were they
killed?" he asked.
"Perhaps you'd like to read some of it, sir."
Grant saw the excitement in his men's eyes. "Yes, I would,"
he said. He moved over to the front of the desk and picked up a
tweezer to tarn the pages.
Rena stood next to him and looked down at the yellowed pages.
The script was done with an old-fashioned, ink fountain pen.
The penmanship was neat and precise, as if great care had gone
into it:
109

18th of September, 1788
Ah, what unthinkable times we live in!
The rancid breath of those vile peasants are blowing down our
necks and these fools think they are immune. Look how they sleep
in their slobbering, drunken stupor across my table!
I see that Marquis Barolt, with his head resting in his plate of
lamb, has peed in his pants again. And there's Lord Travert
snoring like a wild boar in heat. I wonder what happened to his
oversized, powdered wig that is all the rage of Paris this year?
Ha! Wait, I see it! It's floating like a dead bloated pigeon in the
soup caldron.
Is the sight of that wig not an omen of what is to come ? Can't
these dullards see that Louis will be overthrown! Are they that
blind! I dare not think about that now. It is too late to stop the
wheels of history. What is done is done.
Now where is Madame Barolt? Oh yes, there she is! The beau-
tiful marquise is passed out by the hearth, with her gown pushed
up to her waist and her legs spread apart. Vomit drips down from
her mouth and onto my marbled floor. That idiot Baron Lalouch
is on top of her, desperately trying to pump his limp rod into her
hairy slit. No, my friend, I'm afraid you are too drunk to please
anyone, even such a comatose bitch as the marquise.
And Lalouch's wife? Probably upstairs in one of my bedrooms
with that pathetic creature, Comte Donatien Alphonse.
I hear a high-pitched giggle coming from behind me and I turn
around. It is Donatien Alphonse leaning drunkenly against the
door, trying to lift his britches up past his bony knees.
God, how he disgusts me!
His wig hangs down over one eye, exposing his head that is
covered with cysts. He also wears too much white powder, and
he looks like an aging harlot the way he smears his lips with red
paint. The only reason I tolerate Donatien is because he amuses
my guests. The dear fellow fancies himself to be a writer but his
unpublished works are nothing but filth. His mind has long since
eroded from his devotion to absinthe, and he seems to spend his
life between prison and the lunatic asylum paying for the vile
crimes he has done to women.
The comte is now motioning for me to follow hinu
What does the poor fool want? He is so drunk that he cannot
get his pants over his wrinkled ass.
110

I watch in amusement as he struggles toward the cellar. Again
he beckons with his hand for me to come.
Why not? Perhaps he will be a diversion. This party has turned
into a bore.
I follow him down the damp, stone steps to my precious wine
cellar. How does this creature know about it? Has he been prowl-
ing through my chateau again while I've been away? Sometimes
he presses me too far!
He pushes open the thick oak door to the cellar. What I see
fills me with dread, yet at the same time, makes my stomach
ferment with excitement. My stable boy, Yves, is lying on the
cement floor bound with hemp and gagged. He is nude. Dona-
tien's semen runs down the boy's buttocks. His eyes are filled
with fright, and they implore me to help him.
I look over toward Donatien. He is sitting on a barrel of
Graves, his britches still dangling at his knees, and sipping from
a bottle of that venal absinthe.
What a monster Donatien is! He looks up at me and grins,
unmasking his blackened teeth. He tells me to have my fun with
the boy. ' 'Poke him!'' he says. ' 'Poke him! The scamp loves it!''
Yes, I know what Yves likes, you cretin! God knows how many
times he has flirted with me while he bridled my horse for my
morning ride. I have always resisted . . . until now.
His white skin begins to excite me.
It is also the right time of year: the vines are filled with fruit,
and I could hear them pleading with me to have him.
I look at Donatien watching what I'll do, and then I turn to
the boy with the begging eyes.
Yes! I say to myself. Yes! It is time I shared my secret with
someone.
I go over to the bins of aging Pomerol, reach in between the
bottles, and withdraw the mallet and spike. Donatien looks at
me with surprise.
I laugh. This will be our secret, I say to that drunken lump of
decaying flesh.
Then I remove my clothes. I laugh again and move toward
Yves. The boy's eyes fill with terror.
Joy! Oh, joy!
I get in back of him and put my knee on his spine to keep him
still. His body is shaking and I can hear muffled pleas coming
from behind his gag.
Be still, my lad! It will all be over in a second!
Ill

Sitting on his back, I part his blond hair, exposing his un-
washed neck. I scream at Donatien to watch.
This will be our little secret, scum! I've needed to share this
with someone for so long . . . even if it has to be with the likes
of you! Tell anyone and they '11 think you 're more insane than you
are now.
I look out the window toward my fields. This is for you, my
beautiful vineyards! Let this year's vintage be the best ever! I sing
these words with all the rapture in my soul!
Section Sixty-five from the journal of Baron Gustave de Montret. Translated
by field agent Wilbur Striker on the 20th of January, 1943.
TTie guests that de Montret mentioned, except for Comte Donatien Al-
phonse, were guillotined during Robespierre's Reign of Terror.
Donatien Alphonse, I found out, died in the insane asylum of Charenton in
1814.1 also discovered that the Comte had published some books, and that
they probably would have been buried underneath the abundance of rich
French literature except for the fact that Swinburne and Baudelaire thought
he was a writer of some importance. Comte Donatien wrote under the name
of the Marquis de Sade.
—Wilbur Striker
' 'My God!'' was all that Grant could utter when he looked up
from the book.
Rena had her arms folded across her chest and shuddered. She
had the sensation of a cold draft suddenly impregnating the dank
air of the winery. These words, so neatly scripted, felt to her like
they were dug up from the catacombs of hell.
Grant looked down at the thick notebook for a moment, re-
gained his control, then inquired, "Have you counted the num-
ber of victims this person de Montret murdered?"
"Not yet. There seems to be a hell of a lot, though," the lab
technician said, his voice still quavering from the find of the
manuscript.
"After you dust it for prints I want two Xerox copies made-
one for me and one for Miss Halbrook. We'll wait."
As they walked out of the winery, Rena could see a forensic
technician bending down and making a mold of a bare footprint
embedded in the dust. It was the size and shape of a woman's.
Outside, in the sunlight, Grant lit up a cigarette and began to
pace. He seemed uneasy. "None of this makes sense," he said.
"Every time we think we have a handle on what's going on, we
find out that we haven't even scratched the surface yet."
112

don't know if the journal is real," Rena said, even though
she felt otherwise.
"No, but the writing in the notebook is certainly older than
Maura McKinney. What's she doing . . . mimicking a two-
hundred-year-old killer?''
Rena sighed and sat down on the old wooden bench that butted
up against the stone wall erf the winery. "Let's see what we have
first." She leaned back against the wall and rubbed her eyes.
Still more questions, she thought. Did the same type of serial
killer actually exist two hundred years ago? Who was Striker?
Who did the journal belong to—Maura or her father, Peter Mc-
Kinney? Then that same old question came up again—Who's
Uncle Wiggly? No one knew. Grant and Pinky tried to find out
and came up with nothing.
A technician walked out of the winery twenty minutes later
with two copies of the notebook. He gave one to Rena and the
other one to Grant.
"For some unknown reason, she's in the wine country up
north looking for victims. I'm flying back up to Yakima to con-
duct operations from there. We can get you a plane to L.A."
"No, I think I'll stay at my father's winery and read this. I
just need a ride to the Alexander Valley."
Grant asked one of his agents to give Rena a lift. She told
Grant she'd get in touch with him if she discovered anything
revealing after reading the journal.
As she got in the car, Pinky Swangel drove up and parked next
to the other police vehicles. He looked pale and tired. They waved
to each other.
Up on a hill overlooking the main road, Rena saw the figure
of a man watching everything that was happening at the McKin-
ney winery. She couldn't be sure, because he was standing be-
hind a tree, but it looked like Monica van der Slyck's son, Otto.
Rena wondered how many times he had stood there watching the
McKinney property, especially when Maura was staying here.
That pompous man with his large frog eyes bothered her.
On the drive home, Rena began to scan through the thick stack
of Xerox papers. The first entry was dated 1741; the last one in
1793. She sat back and let out a deep breath. Over fifty years of
killings, mutilations, and torture were described in these pages.
She realized that she was hungry and that she had better grab
something to eat when she got to her father's chateau. If she
113

started reading now, she knew she would have very little appetite
left.
She was let off on the gravel path next to the huge house. It
seemed deserted. Her father must have gone back to Los Ange-
les, and she was grateful for that; she needed to be alone and
undisturbed if she was going to sift through this manuscript.
Letting herself in, Rena went upstairs to her bedroom and
changed into the jeans and sweater that she had brought in her
overnight bag. After freshening up, she went downstairs into the
kitchen, brewed a pot of coffee, and checked to see if there was
any food in the sub-zero refrigerator. She was in luck; there were
fresh cold cuts, yogurt, and salad vegetables. The housekeeper
must stock the kitchen daily, because Simon probably never tells
her when he's coming, she thought.
She gulped down a ham sandwich and a carton of yogurt, then
poured herself a mug of strong coffee to fight off the fatigue she
was feeling.
In the den she turned on the lamp, sat down on the couch, and
tucked her legs underneath her body as she began to read de
Montret's diary. A pad and pencil lay next to her in case she felt
it necessary to take notes.
Two hours later, she slowly turned the last page over and put
it down with the others on her lap. She looked bloodless and
unsettled. Her coffee sat cold and untouched on the desk, and
the yellow pad was now filled with several pages of notations.
Glancing quickly outside the window, she saw that night had
already fallen. A cold, shivering sensation suddenly shot down
her spine causing her body to flinch. She got up and went into
the kitchen to refill her cup with hot coffee.
She turned on the lights in every room she entered; there was
no way she wanted to be alone in the darkness, not now, not
after what she had just read.
Where to start? she thought as she came back into the den with
a fresh cup. Rena looked at her notes. Incredible! All told, de
Montret had murdered seventy-three people—mostly beggars,
peasants, and prostitutes of both sexes.
Seventy-three!
"My God!" she said out loud.
This Striker had divided de Montret's memorandums into sec-
tions.
Who was Striker?
114

Was this journal reed or the fantasies of a depraved human
being?
Whose fantasies ? Maura's ? No! Grant says the pages from the
diary were too old.
Peter McKinney's ? Maybe.
Rena looked at the last section of the diary again, and as she
began to reread it, she felt as if something cold and clammy had
suctioned itself onto her neck and was slowly inching its way down.
Chapter Twelve
16th of September, 1793
I come every evening to the Grand Theatre to hear Doretta
Paolli sing. How beautiful she plays La Contessa d'Almaviva.
Her lovely, rich voice fills the auditorium with such delicacy and
power! Never once does it flutter and crack like so many of her
dreadful soprano counterparts. She even makes this Philistine
opera almost tolerable.
It is a degradation that this glorious woman, must be confined
to singing the barbaric tunes of that detestable young upstart
Mozart! The Marriage of Figaro is even more heinous than Beau-
marchais's horrendous version of the play. The only reason it is
in vogue right now is because of its rebellious theme. The Com-
mittee of Public Safety—may they be damned!—embraces any-
thing that is revolutionary.
Oh, to go back to the tragedies of Racine and Corneille! There
was such order and sensibility in their plays. What passes for
theater now is blasphemous!
Yet I come every night because of Doretta.
What is happening? The eyes of the audience are moving away
from the stage and up to the box seats. How dare they do that
during Doretta's aria!
Ah, that's who they see coming in! It's Monsieur Robespierre
115

and several of his murderers! What is he doing here? He should
be in Paris guillotining more of Louis' elite. Perhaps there is no
one left alive to punish there, and he now must come to the
countryside for fresh meat.
A lamentable sorrow suddenly overwhelms me. If there are no
more monarchists left in Paris, then now I am truly alone.
He acknowledges me from where he sits. I nod in mock respect.
After all, it was he who freed me from prison the night before I
was supposed to lose my head. If it were not for his fondness for
my Graves Superieures, which he considers to be the best in
France, then I would surely long ago have been food for the
hungry dogs that roam the Jardin du Luxembourg.
I turn back to lovely Doretta, close my eyes, and let her in-
comparable voice float softly up to me. It carries me away to
when I was young and handsome, when the women and the boys
pined for my graceful body as I rode by on my horse. I never
touched any of them until it was time, that I swear! My seductive
vineyards are a covetous lot and can be vindictive when angered.
When this wretched excuse of an opera is finally over, I ap-
plaud like the rest, then work my way past the audience composed
of the new Republic's common citizens to Doretta's dressing room.
My heart is soaring! She has answered the note that I left for her
last week and has consented to come back with me to my chdteau
for dinner.
I walk slowly now and with a cane. The Revolution has taken
its toll on my health.
When I reach her room, I see Robespierre inside congratulat-
ing her. My body seethes with hate! What does this defiler and
murderer of old men, women, and children want with this beau-
tiful woman ? How can a beast such as he appreciate the wonder
of her golden throat?
Look at that verminous man! He is as small as a weasel, and
when he talks, he speaks with the voice of a maiden! Yet he is
the most powerful man in all France. The people's choice. My
God, what a time of madness this is!
Maximilien Robespierre looks away from my lovely Doretta
and turns to me. There is a disapproving pout on his white, gaunt
face. His face is the mask of death ... no one, not even his
Jacobin friends, will deny that. His eyes are sunken into black
pits, and clusters of his flaming red hair, resembling writhing
snakes, wind their way down his collar.
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Yes, he is death, and I must grovel and kiss his hand if I am
to survive.
' 'Monsieur Robespierre,'' I say, bowing as low as I have done
on many occasions for that headless fool, Louis.
He mildly berates me for being late with my cases of Medoc
that I had promised him.
I tut-tut and make several excuses, acting the fop for that
creature. From the corner of my eye I can see Doretta watching
me with amusement.
He tells me that he is here for a meeting and that he will be
going back to Paris tomorrow. Do I have his wine ready?
' 'Ah, Monsieur Deputy, it is too soon! Much too soon!'' I say,
bowing once more. ' 'To move wine of this quality and vintage
before it has aged properly will surely turn it into vinegar. You
will receive the shipment shortly, 1 promise you. "
After he leaves the dressing room, the lovely Doretta bursts
into laughter, and so do I. We laugh and hold each other until
the tears sting our eyes.
How good it is to be held by a young woman again! Her smooth
skin is soft and plump. I have not aged well, and the beautiful
ones are harder to come by now.
She leaves with me.
As my carriage takes us through the city, I look out my window
to see what effect the revolution has had on the masses. Lice-
infected beggars still hold their scurvy hands out to me for a few
sous as I drive by. The dead, rotting corpses of the poor still lay
in the streets waiting until the city can get around to burying
them.
What changes have you made, my dear citizen Robespierre?
You have guillotined so many people for what reason? Disease,
poverty, death . . . they still abound. Your turn for the blade will
come soon, Monsieur Maximilien, that I can promise you!
When we arrive at my chateau, I explain to Doretta why there
is so little furniture. I tell her how those filthy peasants that worked
for me ransacked my home while I lay in chains in that maggot-
infested, damp prison waiting to die. She shakes her head in
disbelief and puts her arms around my waist.
I desire to do the same for she is so beautiful, but I can hear
my hungry vineyards warning me against that. Regretfully I push
her away and offer her a glass of Pomerol. She refuses because
of her voice.
"Take it," I beg her. "After all, 1 am the greatest vintner in
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all France. It will be like honey running down your throat, my
sweet one.''
She relents and accepts the glass from me.
I wait patiently until the paregoric works its way through her
body. It does not take long. She is small, and in minutes she
slumps over in the chair.
Tears well up in my eyes. Of all those beautiful souls that have
fed my vineyards, Doretta has touched me the deepest. It wasn't
my money that made her come here. She liked me for myself alone.
I can hear the winds swirling outside, carrying the voices of the
vineyards back to me. Again they warn me about such thoughts.
"Oh, my dear, wondrous woman! You are a rarity! A treasure
that will be no more!"
The vineyards are hungry. I can hear them screaming for food.
They must be fed.
I hold Doretta's limp head in my arms and sob. Never again
to hear that voice!
The winds gust harder through the vineyards, throwing open
the doors leading onto the patio. My beloved vines are enraged,
and their threatening voices are harsh to my ears.
I have never seen them this angry before. Frightened, I quickly
undress and carry Doretta Is body outside into the wine field.
The winds are like a tempest now. The branches cut my body,
and the leaves of the vines try to engulf me.
"Be still my beautiful ones. You will soon be fed!" I scream
at them.
The winds become even more incensed. The vines are in a
frenzy. They can smell the blood.
I look at the pitiful ovaries that hang from their famished bod-
ies. How small and dried-up they are. It has been this way for
two harvests because of the drought that has touched this land.
The reason Robespierre does not get his Medoc is because my
vineyards will no longer produce for me.
"Look what I brought you! Look!" I say, hoping they will
forgive me.
Looking down at Doretta's soft, plump arms, I quickly become
aroused. I rip off her dress. Her breasts are so small to my touch.
As I begin to mount her in the dark, / realize that something is
wrong. I look down and then I understand.
Doretta is a castrato! He is a man! His fruits have been re-
moved from him long ago to achieve that strong voice!
No! No! No!
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My ravenous vines try grabbing at me with their leafy arms.
I didn't know, my exquisite ones! I swear to you I didn't know!
Forgive me!
They will never forgive me for this. Never! Dear God, I am lost!
Section One Hundred Twenty-five from the journal of the Baron Gustave
de Montret. I researched Doretta Paolli and found out that she actually
existed and was a man. Doretta Paolli was an alias for a famous contralto,
Gaetano Vicci, who toured Europe dressed as a woman during the latter
half of the eighteenth century. It appears that there was a great demand for
such castrated, male singers during that time. Records show that he disap-
peared and was never heard from again after an appearance in Mozart's The
Marriage of Figaro performed at the Grand Theater in Bordeaux, France.
There is only one more section to translate from this diary of the damned.
It is the most horrible of them all. Then thank God, I will be finished with
it forever!
Translated by Wilbur Striker on the 29th of March, 1943.
—Wilbur Striker
Rena tossed the manuscript onto the coffee table, almost as if
touching it any longer would infect her with its madness. Grant
was right she thought: Every time you think you've scratched the
surface, you find something else underneath.
The baron had a psychopathic makeup. He had illusions that
the vines were alive. He even gave them sexual attributes. It was
this and not the murders that bothered her the most about de
Montret.
She picked up her pad and looked at her notes. The term
ovaries was used over and over again by de Montret in his de-
scription of grapes that hung from the vines. Many times he
referred to his vineyards as "the swollen vineyards." Swollen as
in pregnant, she thought. Who impregnated them? Him? She
believed that's what his meaning implied.
In Section Forty-three, the one on his victim Claudine, he
used the phrase:
My fingers stroke her neck, lingering on the pulse, its melodic
throbbing making me hard and wet.
That confused Rena.
She had divided up his seventy-three victims: forty-seven were
males, twenty-six were females.
The vineyards, though, were his real lover. He protected and
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fed them. He had sex with his dead victims inside the fields as if
he were making love to the vineyards themselves. In return the
vines demanded everything from him like a spoiled queen. They
could be jealous and vengeful if provoked.
All the killings happened in September, just like now. She
knew September was also the time when the vineyards were har-
vested in France. But why then? Again she felt there was some-
thing ritualistic, almost sacrificial in all this. It smacked of
paganism. She made a mental note to research this avenue.
What was in the last entry of the diary that Striker said was
the most horrible of them all? The FBI said someone had torn it
out of the notebook.
What happened to Gustave de Montret after 1793? Surely the
vineyard didn't kill him.
Did he really exist?
Her eyelids were heavy and she needed to sleep. As she walked
up the mahogany staircase to her bedroom, she was beginning
to feel that Peter McKinney played an important role in all this.
But in what way?
She tried to fall asleep, but it was impossible. Every time she
closed her eyes and began drifting into a state of semiconscious-
ness, she envisioned de Montret's naked body standing over her
bed. His gnarly hands with their long, bloodstained fingernails
began closing in around her neck. Rena would jump up, startled,
gasping for breath.
Eventually she turned on the night-light and rubbed her eyes.
Sleep was not going to happen, at least not right now.
How the hell did all this come about, Maura? she wondered.
Rena got out of bed, went over to the window, and opened up
the lace curtains. Outside, the blackness seemed endless. Even
the crickets and the wind were unusually quiet tonight.
She got back in bed and tried reading Saul Bellow's new novel
which she had packed in her suitcase, but her concentration would
not go beyond the first paragraph. Images of Maura—hurt, alone,
and scared—would creep into her head. Then memories of that
bizarre time spent together in Greece once again found their way
back into her thoughts. This time, though, her reminiscences
were not about Athens, but of a strange incident that occurred
on the Island of Paros.
At seven in the morning, Rena and Maura left Athens from
the port of Piraeus by ferry. Their first stopover in the Cycladic
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islands was Paros. They planned to stay there several days sun-
bathing and exploring the caves.
The decks of the boat were extremely cramped with students
from all over Europe, but both women were too excited to care
much about comfort. They had planned this vacation since their
first year in college, and now, finally, it was all happening.
Several hours later the ferry left them off on the sun-drenched
island in the middle of the Aegean Sea. Women dressed in black
stood on the pier crying, "spiti-spiti!'' inviting the disembarking
tourists to stay at their houses for a few drachmas a night.
Rena and Maura jumped down from the gangplank onto the
pier and began searching through a mound of knapsacks and tote
bags for their luggage.
"Missy, come here," one of the old women said to them,
motioning with her hands.
Rena and Maura grabbed their bags and walked over to her.
"Need room? Mine very nice . . . very clean," she said in a
heavy accent. The old woman in black was staring at Maura. She
put her hand up to her pale, golden hair and tried to touch it.
Maura jerked away.
"Beautiful," the Greek lady said reverently. "Your hair like
Aphrodite's."
"How much?" Maura asked.
"For you, seven drachmas a night." Her eyes, clouded with
cataracts, remained glued on Maura's face.
"Five," Maura said, holding up five fingers.
"Six," the woman in black quickly responded.
"Hot water?" Maura asked.
The old woman shrugged and held out her hands. "What you
need for? The sun on you all day . . . make you very hot. Cold
water make you feel very good.''
Maura turned to Rena to see what she thought.
Rena groaned and rolled her eyes. "Tell her it's a deal, okay?
A bench in Central Park costs more than six drachmas a night."
Maura nodded to the woman.
The old lady grabbed Maura's bag, and said, "Come, Aph-
rodite."
They followed her off the pier and down the main street of
Paros, eventually stopping when they came to a donkey tied to a
pole near the harbor. The old lady strapped the bags on the beast.
"You want to ride, my goddess?" she said to Maura, paying no
attention to Rena.
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"No thank you," Maura said, shuddering at the thought.
She staled at Maura for a brief moment, again with that ex-
pression of amazement on her face, then hit the donkey's hind
leg with a stick to make it move. Perhaps it was the cataracts,
but the expression on the old woman's face every time she looked
at Maura gave Rena the impression that she could almost see
right into her soul.
The old woman's house, whitewashed and sparkling in the
sun, overlooked the bay of Naoussa.
Their room was small but clean, with a beautiful view of the
beaches.
"Let's go swimming," Rena said, digging through her suit-
case for her bathing suit.
"Maybe tomorrow. I think I'd just like to rest . . . catch up
on some reading." Maura was bending down, putting her things
away in the dresser drawer.
"Absolutely not!" Rena said forcefully. "You're coming with
me. You can read on the beach."
After a beat, Maura nodded, then quietly said, "All right."
She took her black bathing suit from the drawer and went out
into the hall bathroom to change.
When she came back to the room, Rena turned and looked at
her. "My God," she whispered, open-mouthed. "I am abso-
lutely jealous!'' Maura looked stunning standing by the doorway.
Her long legs, perfectly proportioned, seemed to take forever to
reach the rest of her body, and her skin, except for a few red
blotches, was immaculately white, almost translucent. Her
breasts stood erect and were straining against the latex material
of her bathing suit.
"Are we going or what?" Maura said, embarrassed.
The path leading from the house to the beach was steep. Rena
made the descent with little trouble but had to wait for Maura,
who was climbing down slowly and clutching her stomach. Her
face was etched in pain.
"Are you all right?" Rena asked worriedly.
"I'll be fine," Maura said, holding onto the bushes that pro-
truded from each side of the path. When she touched down on
the porous sand, she saw the concern in Rena's face and smiled.
"Hey, relax, okay? It's only the female curse. I just get it worse
than most, that's all."
They found a deserted spot near the wine-colored sea and set
down their blankets. Maura covered her body in a strong sun-
122

block lotion. For the rest of the afternoon they read and napped.
Rena occasionally went into the water to cool off, but Maura
preferred to remain on the sand, saying that she didn't want to
swim.
As the sun lowered itself over the Aegean, casting a brilliant
glow in the sky, they reluctantly packed their belongings and
made their way back to the house. Rena walked slowly next to
Maura, helping her up the hill. Again her face was filled with
pain, but she didn't say anything.
That night, Rena put on white shorts and a halter, and Maura
wore a lavender sundress that complimented her deep, green
eyes.
' 'How are you feeling? Are you up to going out?'' Rena asked
Maura as she buckled up her sandals.
Maura was using deep strokes to brush her long hair. ' 'Better.
The pain just comes and goes. I took a Midol."
By this time they were starving, and the wonderful smell of
food coming from the old woman's kitchen only inflamed their
appetites.
"Where you go?" the old woman asked them as Rena and
Maura walked past the kitchen to the door leading outside.
"To a taverna for dinner. Can you recommend one?" Maura
asked.
"Yes, right here. Sit down," she said, pointing to the table.
Rena began to say, "No, we couldn't..."
"Sit! Sit!" the old woman said impatiently, pushing the chairs
out from the table.
Just then Rena looked up and saw a beautiful young man,
maybe twenty-five years old, with black curly hair and chestnut-
colored eyes standing near the doorway. He had on a white cot-
ton, collarless Greek shirt and fisherman boots. He was staring
at Maura.
"My son . . . Nikos," the woman said to them.
The man grinned warmly and nodded, his eyes never leaving
Rena's friend.
"Plenty food. Stay, please," she implored the women.
They relented and stayed for dinner.
The old woman was an excellent cook. They were served a
rich fish stew cooked in wine. When Rena asked what it was,
the woman could only answer soupia and oktapodi. Whatever
she chose to call it, it was delicious. It wasn't until the next day
123

that Rena found out that she had eaten freshly killed squid and
octopus.
They were given a sweet dark wine with their dinner that was
made on Paros. It was rough to the taste, and they drank bottled
water instead.
All through dinner Nikos remained quiet, but every time he
looked up from his plate, his eyes were fixed on Maura.
During a dessert of yogurt mixed with honey, Rena told Nikos
and his mother that she and Maura were going to visit the caves
of Anti-Paros tomorrow.
Nikos's eyes lit up. "I take you," he said with only a trace of
an accent.
Both women looked up, surprised. This was the first time he
spoke. They had no idea he knew English.
"My son good with boats. He take you to other island," the
mother said, boasting.
The next morning Rena and Maura sailed over to the satellite
island of Anti-Paros in Nikos's fishing boat. Once out on the sea
and away from his mother, Nikos talked continually, mostly about
the beauty of his island and his plans to own several fishing boats.
Almost everything he said was directed to Maura.
Rena smiled while watching him do a ritualistic courting dance
with her friend. Maura was attentive to him, but remained dis-
tant.
When they reached the island, they hired mules to take them
to the entrance of the caves. Nikos was the perfect guide: he was
witty and articulate and knew the locations of the best-looking
stalactites in the caverns.
That evening he took them into the village of Naoussa to his
favorite place for dinner. The owner of the crowded taverna wel-
comed Nikos with a bear hug and gave them a table next to the
musicians.
Throughout the night the three of them danced and sang. It
had been years since Rena saw Maura this happy.
The black sky had hints of gray in it by the time they made
their way back to the old woman's house. They were light-headed
from all the Metaxa and ouzo they drank. Nikos and Maura
lagged a few steps behind Rena, talking to each other in low
tones.
Rena went into the house thinking that they wanted to be alone.
As she closed the door, Rena saw Nikos put his hands on Maura's
face, lifting it up to kiss.
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It was good for her, Rena thought. She had been mourning
Martin's death much too long.
She went into her room and began to undress. Suddenly, just
as she got under the covers, she heard a piercing scream coming
from somewhere outside.
It's Maura! she thought, startled.
She got up and raced out of the house toward the direction of
the sound. The old lady was right behind her.
They stopped abruptly when they reached the flower garden
with its overhangihgs of brightly colored bougainvillea. Nikos
was laying on the grass. There was a deep gash on his cheek,
and blood dripped down his face staining his white shirt. Maura
was standing over him holding a steel nail file. Her face, once
beautiful, was now distorted with rage.
"I'll kill you!" she screamed, glaring down at him.
Nikos stared up at her, a stunned look on his face.
"Maura!" Rena said, shocked.
"I'll kill you! I'll kill you if you ever touch me again, you
bastard!'' There was white foam around the corners of her mouth,
and saliva ran down her chin. Her face was red, and veins jutted
out from her temple.
'' Nikos, Nikos!'' the old woman shouted, getting on her knees
and holding her son's bleeding face in her hands. She turned
toward Maura, her eyes fiery. "Why you do this?" she wailed.
The hate that made Maura's body shake only a minute ago
began to drain away. Her eyes softened. She looked at Nikos's
mother, opened her mouth and tried to speak, but nothing came
out.
"Whore!" the old lady screamed at Maura, then spit on the
ground. "He good boy! He like you! Why you do this?"
"I. . .I'msorry. . .1. . ." She shook her head. Tears began
to stream down her face.
"You are evil! You are the child of Hermes!"
Maura's head jolted back from the remark.
"You think I don't know, heh! I know! I know!" the woman
bellowed. She stood up and pointed a finger at Maura.
Maura put a hand up to her face then ran back into the house.
"I know who you are!" the woman shouted after her.
Again Rena had the feeling that the old woman could see deep
into Maura's very being. She went into the house to find her
friend.
Maura was in the bedroom throwing her belongings into her
125

bag. Rena did the same; they knew they couldn't stay here any
longer.
They found a hotel in the center of town that had a vacancy.
It did not have the charm of the old lady's house, but it was the
only place available on the island.
As they unpacked, Maura remained sullen, refusing to talk
about what happened.
Both women were fatigued from the night, yet they couldn't
sleep. They went down to the harbor and found a taverna that
had opened early. Sitting down at a table outside, they ordered
Turkish coffees and cakes.
The silence between them was deafening as they stirred their
thick drinks. Finally Rena couldn't stand it any longer and asked,
"Why?"
"Why what!" Maura said, agitated.
"What happened between you two?"
"Nothing!" she snapped.
"Maura, I'm your Mend." She reached across the table to
touch her hand, but Maura quickly moved hers away.
Her mouth began to tremble, then she said tearfully, "He tried
to touch me."
"Where? Here?" Rena said, touching her own breasts.
' 'No. Here!'' Maura hissed, putting her hand below her stom-
ach. Again her eyes filled with anger as she remembered.
"Did he use force on you?"
"What do you mean by force?"
"Did he hold you down against your will? Did you think he
was going to rape you?''
Maura shook her head. "No, but that doesn't mean he had the
right to try and touch me there!''
"I agree," Rena said. "You seemed to be attracted to him."
"So what?" Maura said, shrugging. "That doesn't mean I
have to sleep with him." -
"Of course not, but if he wasn't trying to rape you, then don't
you think using a nail file on his face was a little excessive?"
Rena said, somewhat amazed.
"I'm sorry for what happened, but he had no right to try
anything! Now can we please change the subject." There was a
finality in her voice. She sipped her coffee, avoiding Rena's in-
quisitive eyes.
"What did his mother mean when she said you were the child
of Hermes?" Rena asked, not wanting to drop it.
126

Maura didn't answer her.
"Hermes is a Greek god, isn't he?"
"I wouldn't know," she answered stiffly.
"Yes, you do. You have a degree in Greco-Roman history,"
said Rena.
Maura turned her head away from the table and looked toward
the sea.
"Maura, you may hate me for this, but I'm going to say it-
Martin's dead! You're young. There are other men. ..."
"How dare you," Maura said, her face twisting into that ugly
rage look again. "You don't know anything about Martin!" She
got up and quickly walked down the main street and disappeared
into one of the narrow winding lanes of Paros.
Rena sat back, drinking her coffee and watching the sun come
up. She'd give Maura some time to calm down, then she'd try to
talk to her again.
A couple of hours later, when she returned to her hotel, she
found the room empty. Maura and her luggage were gone.
It was the last time they ever saw each other.
The memories of that time in the Aegean so long ago ex-
hausted Rena. Her last thought, just as she fell asleep, was the
old lady's caustic remark about the god Hermes. What the hell
had she meant by that?
Chapter Thirteen
_R
ena got up early the next morning. She wanted to make
an appointment with Dr. Frawley to discuss Maura. He was
the McKinney family physician, and if anyone would have been
aware of any abnormal behavior during her developmental years,
it would have been him.
She took a quick shower and dressed. As she came downstairs,
she could smell fresh coffee brewing.
127

In the kitchen Harrison Monroe stood by the counter pouring
himself a cup of coffee. He was wearing wine-stained pants and
knee-length rubber boots. When he heard footsteps coming to-
ward him, he turned around. They both looked surprised to see
each other.
"I'm sorry, I didn't know anyone was staying here," he said,
smiling sheepishly. "Now at least I know why I found the cof-
feepot unwashed when I came in this morning. Your father gave
me the key when he left and told me to make myself comfortable.
I needed a quiet place to do the paperwork and my office wasn't
it. The sound of the bottling plant going full blast during har-
vesting could make anybody crazy.''
Rena was glad to see him. She had spent a restless night,
waking up constantly from the horrible nightmares caused by de
Montret's journal. His smiling, friendly face was a soothing sight.
"Want some?" he asked.
"Black," she said, going over to him.
As he poured her a cup, he said, ' 'You look good in old jeans.
I never thought you'd be the type that would wear them ... at
least wear them well."
' 'What kind of person did you think I was?'' She took the cup
from Harrison and brought it over to the antique pine table.
"Oh, let's see . . . someone who wears stylish business suits
with frilly white blouses during the day . . . and for the nights
you have a walk-in closet full of Givenchy gowns—a different
one for every social event you ever attended. Maybe even a bulg-
ing drawer filled with matching, litde striped outfits for the yacht
races at Newport. Then ..."
"Hey, enough!" she groaned, holding her hands up to stop
him from going further. She sat down on the chair and dangled
her leg over the top of the table. "That's how I really seem to
you, huh? Like a pugged-nose, Fifth Avenue debutante?"
His green eyes were grinning at her. "Well . . . maybe a
little," he said, holding his thumb and index finger about an inch
apart from each other.
"Gee, thanks." She wore a mock frown on her face. Not only
was he good-looking, but he was bright and likable. A rare trinity
these days in men, she thought.
"What brings you back to the valley?" he asked, leaning
against the granite countertop and stretching out his arms. He
wore a short-sleeve shirt, and his exposed biceps were tight and
defined.
128

"I left a friend here, remember?"
The smile faded from his face. "Have you heard the news this
morning?"
"No, I just got up. Why?"
Harrison glanced at his watch. "The seven-o'clock news is on
in a couple of minutes." He turned on the small TV set sitting
on the counter.
She did not like the look on Harrison's face. The nervous
feeling started to return as she got up off the chair and went over
to the television.
Bryant Gumbel and Deborah Norville were doing a promo for
their upcoming show, then the hourly local newscast came on.
The anchorman made the murders in the wine fields the fea-
tured story. He said that . . . "Strong new evidence now links
Maura McKinney, an assistant DA in New York, to the kill-
ings." The nickname he used for her was the "Vineyard
Butcher."
Rena got out of the chair and moved closer to the TV. She
was in shock.
A news conference taped last night from a Seattle hotel ap-
peared on the screen. Federal Agent Grant somberly walked up
to the podium holding papers in his hand and read a written
statement to the press. Ray Scollari stood next to him.
Grant said that genetic testing has now confirmed that the
DNA makeup of the hair samples taken from Maura's bed in
New York matched up with the hairs and skin samples found
under the fingernails of the victim Arnold Baker. There was no
longer any doubt that Maura McKinney had been committing the
brutal murders in vineyards across the country. He said that the
FBI believed she was hiding out somewhere in the northwestern
part of the United States.
That's it then, Rena thought. Any small ray of hope she had
that Maura was innocent before this morning now faded.
Grant stepped back from the podium and Scollari took over.
He didn't have his suit jacket on, and his sleeves were rolled
up, giving him the appearance of having been up all night working.
Having met Scollari, Rena had a feeling that it was a well-
rehearsed look.
What he said was brief but to the point. Shaking his head in
disbelief, he said that after working closely with Maura for so
many years, it pained him to find out that she was a killer. He
then named several other well-known murderers—sociopaths who
129

lived quiet lives and who were respected by their neighbors—
and said that it was impossible to tell them apart from the rest of
society. He then promised to do everything that was within his
power to help the FBI and other law enforcement agencies ap-
prehend her before she killed again.
My instincts were right about him, she thought. He was prob-
ably out to bury her. The guy's actually using this tragedy as PR
for his upcoming election. The Vineyard Butcher! My God, how
distasteful! In fact, she found all tides bestowed on murderers
disturbing. The Hillside Strangler. . . Son of Sam. . . The Night
Stalker. Those names belonged to wrestlers and comic-book
characters, not to real-life psychopaths.
"Sorry about your friend," Harrison said, getting up to turn
off the TV.
"So am I," Rena said softly. "So am I."
"Why do you think she did it? You've known her all your
life," he asked compassionately.
It was a question she'd been asking herself for the last week.
She put her hands in her jean pockets, leaned against the table,
and said, "There's no simple answer, especially if the crimes are
psychopathological in nature."
Harrison let out a small moan and ran his fingers anxiously
through his long hair.
"What's the matter?" Rena asked.
He attempted a smile. "Nothing."
She didn't believe him.
He saw her looking at him strangely. "Okay. These damn
murders are beginning to cause some problems with the workers.
They're afraid to go out alone in the fields. Some of the more
superstitious ones say she's a witch and that she's capable of
being in different vineyards at the same time."
"That's absurd!" Rena quickly remarked.
"I know that. Many of them are too scared to come to work,
and production has fallen off slightly. It's even worse in the smaller
wineries where the owners can afford only one or two pickers.
If I seem a little edgy, now you know why." He looked at his
watch. "Hey, I've got to get going.'' He grabbed his windbreaker
from the back of the chair and put it on.' 'We're picking the pinot
today."
"What?" she said, her mind still on the news report.
"We're picking the grapes for the pinot noir. If you're not
doing anything, come on over to the winery."
130

"I'll be busy most of the day."
' 'Will you be around for dinner?''
She was flattered. He was a nice man, easy to be with. It was
just wrong timing right now. "I can't tonight," she said.
After he left, Rena looked up Frawley's home number and
called him. He was already up and said he'd meet her at his office
around ten o'clock.
As she brought the cups to the sink, Rena began to think about
what would happen to Maura when they caught up with her.
Would she be put in jail for life, or would her egghead colleagues
at some institution put probes in her head in an attempt to deter-
mine why she was different from the rest of society? The vision
of Maura strapped on a table with wires protruding from different
parts of her body distressed her. The Maura she remembered
was a proud, dignified woman who'd rather die than be subjected
to that kind of humiliation.
At nine-thirty she took the keys for the Range Rover that were
hung in the pantry door and left the house for her appointment
with Frawley.
The drive to his office was not far. Rena pulled up in front of
Doc Frawley's large Victorian house in the town of Calistoga.
He was one of the few doctors left that combined his living quar-
ters with his medical practice.
The last of his kind, she thought as the vision of a modern
doctor's office with its rows of impersonal cubicles loomed in
her mind. I bet he even makes house calls.
Rena walked up the stairs past the shingle that said winston s.
frawley m.d., and opened the door.
The waiting room was directly inside. The couches were aged
and frayed, and the magazines in the rack were several years old.
Particles of dust covered the table and shelves.
One patient, a woman in her seventies, stooped over, was
sitting on the couch next to her metal walker. She nodded and
smiled to Rena as she came into the room. Frawley poked his
head out from the door of his office. He had on a white shirt,
yellowed from age, and wore his tie knotted in a double Windsor.
"Mrs. Briggs, how are you today?" he said to the old woman
as he helped her up.
"The same as yesterday and the day before that," she re-
sponded, laughing. She grabbed onto her walker with both hands
and hobbled into his office.
131

Frawley looked at Rena and smiled. "I'll be free in a few
minutes. We'll talk then." He closed the door.
While waiting alone in the room, Rena could guess what had
happened to Frawley's practice: time had passed him by. The
younger patients went to the corporation doctors with their in-
surance forms and cubicles. The older ones who remained loyal
to Frawley began to die off, and there were no new replacements.
Twenty minutes later Mrs. Briggs, with the aid of her walker,
limped slowly out of his office. Frawley helped her down the
steps and onto the sidewalk. He came back and told Rena to
come inside.
His office, like the waiting room, was drab green and in need
of a new coat of paint. The dirt-streaked glass frame holding his
medical degree hung on the wall in back of his desk. To the side,
the door to the examining room was open, and Rena could see
his medical equipment: a gurney with tufts of cotton protruding
from its leather casing, an X-ray machine, a medicine cabinet,
an EKG monitor, and a table containing bandages, swabs, and a
glass jar filled with wooden throat depressors. The equipment,
like everything else about Frawley's practice, was worn and in
need of a face-lift.
In the corner of the examining room Rena noticed a much
newer machine that contrasted deeply with the rest of the equip-
ment. It looked like an ultrasound with a monitor attached to it.
Why would he need that for a general practice? she wondered,
somewhat confused.
Frawley sat down in an old, wooden, paint-chipped swivel
chair behind his rolltop desk and motioned Rena toward the
leather armchair.
"I don't think you're here for a physical, not that I wouldn't
mind giving you one," he said, with a twinkle in his eye. "Most
of my patients are even older than Mrs. Briggs."
"Actually, Dr. Frawley ..."
' 'Call me Winnie, that's what everybody calls me around these
parts. It's short for Winston. That's the tide the British fondly
dubbed Churchill." He took a pipe out of his jacket pocket and
filled it with tobacco from a glass canister on his desk.
"Have the police or the FBI contacted you regarding Maura
McKinney?" Rena asked him.
"Yes, why?" he said, the gleam suddenly going out of his
eyes.
132

"They seem to have conclusive evidence that she murdered
all those people."
"That's what they tell me. Hard to believe, though," he said
with concern, puffing on his pipe. "The Maura I knew, and I
knew her all her life, could never do a thing like that."
"I felt the same way. There are times now when I'm starting
to ask myself, 'How well did I really know her?' "
"What do you mean?" His eyes hardened with suspicion.
"Look, Doctor, I was her friend. If she's out there, I want to
help her. I don't want to see her harmed."
"All I can tell you is the same thing I told the police and the
FBI boys. I was her physician from the day she was born up to
the time she left for New York. That was many years ago. I know
she must have changed somewhat . . . hell, New York could
change anybody."
"How was her health as a child?"
"Excellent, aside from the common childhood ailments like
measles and the mumps." He put his pipe down on the ashtray,
took off his steel-framed glasses, and began to clean them with
a handkerchief.
"Was there concern on your part at any time for the condition
of her mental well-being?"
Frawley put his glasses back on and slumped into his chair.
"Yes," he said. "Right after a boy she used to go with was
murdered."
"Martin Bynum."
"That's correct."
Rena leaned forward. "He was killed the day of Maura's sev-
enteenth birthday party. She was the one who supposedly found
him."
"Yup, that's certainly true," he said, shaking his head. "I
wouldn't wish that discovery on anybody. I was acting coroner
then when the police called and asked me to get over to the
Bynum house. His parent's bedroom was a mess . . . blood and
brains scattered everywhere. The son of a bitch who did it used
a twelve-gauge shotgun and aimed it directly at his head. Martin
couldn't have been more than a foot away from the barrel of the
gun when it went off.''
"Was she the one who called the police?"
"No, her father did. According to him, she ran back home
and told him what had happened. That night, I received a call
from him asking me to come to his house. He said his daughter
133

was acting crazy and that he didn't know what to do about it. I
could hear her screaming in the background. When I got there,
I found her breaking up the house. Peter was trying to grab hold
of her, but she was in such a tumultuous state that she easily
broke his hold. At one point she even threw him across the room.
I never saw anything like that before. She was calling him all
sorts of names, blaming him for Martin's death. Luckily I brought
along a sedative. It took 20 milligrams of Valium in order to
quiet her down."
' 'It would have to take an amazing amount of strength to throw
a man across a room," she said.
"Yes, I suppose so," he said quickly.
"When did she start coming around?"
Frawley at first didn't answer. He tapped the bowl of his pipe
on the wire ashtray, emptying the ashes out of it. "This part I
didn't tell the police. I really didn't think it was any of their
business—besides, I promised her father I wouldn't tell anyone,''
he finally said. After another deep pause he continued. "She was
put in a private sanitarium up in the state of Washington for
several weeks."
"Washington? That's where the FBI thinks she is now."
"Yes, I heard about it over the news. Maura being put away
was kept very quiet. Peter McKinney was a proud man and didn't
want anybody to know about it. Eventually she came around . . .
returned home, and went back to school. Except something was
lost in her . . . something subtle. It was as if a flame that once
sparkled inside her was no longer there.''
"I know exactly what you mean," Rena said, thinking back
to the difference in Maura's personality when they vacationed
together five years later in Greece. The Maura she spent her
summers with as a child was carefree and had a passion for life.
The one she saw after Martin's murder was secretive, distant.
"That's all there is to tell I suppose. What else would you like
to know?" Frawley asked.
"I doubt if you can help me with this, but something's always
bothered me about these mutilations. The castrations seem to be
made by someone who seems to be familiar with surgical pro-
cedures. The incisions were always done cleanly, as if they were
the work of a professional. I don't remember Maura ever being
interested in medicine."
"Hell!" He slammed his hand on the desk, then rubbed his
cheeks trying to bring life back into his defeated face. Sighing
134

deeply, he said slowly, "You don't have to have four years of
medical school to know where the ovaries and the testes are
located. You just have to be proficient in the human anatomy,
and I doubt if anyone knew the human anatomy better than Maura
McKinney."
Rena looked up at Frawley. "Why would she know it better
than most people?"
He shook his head from the impact of his own statement.
"When Maura was fourteen or fifteen, I don't remember which,
I gave her a copy of the book, Gray's Anatomy.''
"Why?"
"Two reasons. The first one being, as an artist, she was inter-
ested in the human anatomy. You've seen her drawings . . . how
precisely she sketched the details of her models. You need to
know where everything goes in the human body in order to do
that."
Rena remembered how literal and clear Maura's sketches were.
"And the second reason?"
"Maura had a knack for science . . . especially biological
science. She was a whiz at dissecting frogs and guinea pigs for
school projects. Sometimes she'd bring her dissections to me to
see if she had done them right. She was one of those rare breeds—
equally gifted in science as she was in art and law.''
Rena nodded in acknowledgment of Maura's attributes.
"Anything else, my dear? I have lots of time. As you can see,
nobody's breaking down my door for my medical expertise," he
said with a biting edge in his voice. He stood up and walked over
to the window and looked out. "This will be my last year prac-
ticing medicine," he said quietly. "I have cancer of the pancreas.
Whatever time I have left I want to devote to my winery.''
"I'm sorry."
He shrugged.
"I didn't know you were interested in wine," she said.
"Hell, everybody around here grows grapes of one kind or
another. It's a way of life in this valley."
"Yes, I do have one more question. What happened at Maura's
birth?"
"What?" His face turned pale.
Rena noticed. "You once said to me . . . 'if only Maura's
mother could have reached full term.' What did you mean by
that?"
His color returned as quickly as it had disappeared.' 'Oh that,''
135

he said. "What I meant was, if she had carried Maura for nine
months, maybe she would be alive today."
Rena believed when he originally said it he meant more than
that, but she wasn't going to push him. "Where are the Mc-
Kinneys buried?" she asked suddenly.
"Over in the cemetery in Oakville."
She got up.
"Are you going?" he asked. "There's no rush."
"I'm afraid I have to," she said.
Frawley walked her to the door. As he opened it for her, she
asked, "Are you an obstetrician?"
"What? No, of course not. I'm a general practitioner. Why?"
"I was just wondering. I saw ultrasound equipment in your
examining room. The general purpose for having it is to examine
fetuses in pregnant women."
Frawley laughed. "My dear, when you've practiced medicine
for as long as I have in a small town you learn to do a little bit
of everything."
She thanked Doctor Frawley and left.
As she got into the car and drove back toward the Alexander
Valley, she wondered what really frightened Frawley when she
brought up Maura's birth.
Then she began thinking about the truck driver, Arnie Baker.
Why was he alive? There was no rush for Maura to make the
kill; it was late at night, and the Yakima vineyards were located
in an unpopulated area. The spike had missed his vertebra by an
inch. An inch is a lot when you're talking about a small neck
like Arnie's, she thought. Was he left alive on purpose as a ma-
cabre kind of joke? If she's caught and put on trial, Arnie Baker's
testimony will be the final nail in her coffin. Is that what she
wanted?
"Let's see what we can find out about the McKinneys," she
said to herself, turning the car around and heading south to Oak-
ville.
She found the cemetery bordered by a Catholic church on the
outskirts of the town. Rena crossed the street and went in to see
if anybody there would be able to help her locate the McKinney
plot.
Inside, an elderly priest who was lighting candles took her
back out to the steps of the church and pointed to where the
graves were located.
It was a small cemetery with some of the granite stones dating

back to the 1800s. Somewhere in the middle of it Rena located
the graves.
The first headstone belonged to Maura's father:
Peter Sean McKinney
Born November 20, 1921
Died October 3, 1974
The second one shook Rena up.
William Tyrone McKinney
A Loving Brother and Son
Born September 18, 1957
Died September 18, 1957
My God! Rena thought. Maura had a twin brother who died
the same day they were born! Why didn't she ever tell me ? Why
didn 't Frawley tell me? Then she remembered Peter McKinney's
words to Maura up in his attic so long ago:
"You bloody witch! They died because of you!"
Now at least she understood who "they" were. McKinney
was talking about his wife, Clair, and his son, William Tyrone.
Then Rena looked at the third headstone, and when she read
the inscription she gasped in horror.
Clair de Montret McKinney
Born April 8, 1925
Died September 18, 1957
De Montret was Clair McKinney's maiden name.
She had been wrong. The journal of Baron de Montret didn't
belong to Peter McKinney as she originally thought. It belonged
to Maura's mother.
137

Chapter Fourteen
_C
harlie stared at the small red circle painted on the fore-
head of the pretty Indian reporter. She was sitting two rows
in front of him in the balcony of the large conference room. The
bright-colored sari she had on clung to her body, exposing her
shapely shoulders and dark brown arms.
Stunning, he thought. In fact, absolutely fucking ravishing!
He rested his chin on his hands against the small table in front
of him and envisioned both of them together in his hotel room.
She'd be standing next to the bed, her lustful, almond eyes glow-
ing with desire. He'd saunter over to her. Grabbing hold of the
end of her sari, he'd slowly circle her, letting the cloth unravel
from her body. The yards of cotton would eventually disappear,
revealing nipples that were dark as ebony. She'd then put her
arms around him, holding him close, and he'd smell the flower-
scented oil in her thick, black hair.
Charlie looked away, but the image of the naked Indian woman
wouldn't leave his mind. He glanced around the room and was
suddenly reminded that he was surrounded by newspeople from
all over the world. Knock it off, asshole! You 're paid to cover the
OPEC conference, not to fantasize about the women of third-
world countries.
Except that meant listening to a bunch of greedy bastards hold-
ing the world by its throat, trying to squeeze another dime out of
it for a barrel of oil.
In the large room of the convention center downstairs the rep-
resentatives of the oil-rich countries fought among themselves.
Nobody seemed to be in control; everybody was screaming at
once.
Charlie had long ago removed his earpiece and turned off the
machine that translated the Arabic into English.
141

"Oh, Christ! A month of this shit!" he moaned to himself.
There was no way he could listen to this any longer; he'd just
have to take his copy from UPI and Reuters, that's all. As long
as the Indian woman hung around, he'd have his daydreams to
keep him going.
Just as he turned his eyes back to the woman, he felt someone
tapping him on the shoulder. It was a young page.
"Monsieur, papers from America have been expressed to you.
They're back at your hotel."
"From who?" he asked, hoping it wasn't from his newspaper.
"A Madame Halbrook."
Relieved, Charlie handed him a twenty-franc note, snapped
the top back on his lap-top computer, and got up to leave. It had
to be important, he thought. As he made his way toward the exit
door, he turned and took one last look at the sensuous Indian
reporter, then left.
Outside the conference hall, Charlie hailed a taxi. The OPEC
meeting was held near the Arc de Triomphe de l'Etoile and the
hotel he was staying at was way across town on rue des Ecole.
He preferred the university life of the Latin Quarter to that of the
solemn hotels on the avenue George where most of the other
reporters stayed.
The taxi dropped him off next to his small hotel. It was lunch
hour, and the streets and cafes were alive with the students from
the Sorbonne.
In the lobby the concierge handed Charlie a thick, heavy en-
velope.
When he got to his room, he took off his suit and tie and tossed
them on the chair. Getting into his faded 501 's, he lay down on
his bed and tore open the envelope. Inside he found a note from
Rena along with de Montret's journal.
Dear Charlie,
I know you're bored as hell by now, so I'm sure you'll be
thrilled doing me a couple of favors. First, read the journal I
sent you, then see if you can find out if Wilbur Striker and de
Montret actually existed. The baron lived in Bordeaux. Clair
de Montret is the maiden name of Maura's mother. For some
reason Maura is recreating the murders that took place in this
200-year-old diary. One other thing, it seems the last section
of the journal was deliberately torn out. Striker thought it to
142

be important. See what you can learn about that. Will explain
more later on.
Ree
P.S. I know the women in Paris have nice white skin but
try to stay out of trouble, okay?
Charlie grinned, thinking about the Indian woman. Her skin
was anything but white.
He began feeling hungry. Putting on a turtleneck sweater and
his aviator's jacket, he left the hotel with the journal under his
arm. At the small cafe on the corner he ordered a cheese sand-
wich on a baguette and a double espresso. Sitting in the back,
away from the loud din of the students, he began to read the
diary.
By the time he finished the last page, he had consumed another
sandwich and two more double espressos. The caffeine flowed
through his veins, pumping his heart with excitement. Now this
was something he could get into! It beat the hell out of writing
about oil cartels.
But where do you begin? he thought to himself. Christ, the
diary is almost fifty years old!
Start with Wilbur Striker. Nobody names their son Wilbur un-
less the parents have a death wish for him. He's either American,
English, or Canadian.
Charlie then looked at the date of the journal.
It was translated in 1943. France was occupied by the Germans
then, and the Vichy government was in power.
How did Striker get his hands on the original French version
of the journal? Wait a fucking minute! After almost every section,
he used the term "field agent" before his name!
Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!
He was beginning to have a pretty good idea of what "field
agent" meant back then, and the caffeine rush made his heart
pound even faster.
He left money on the table and raced back to the hotel to make
a phone call, hoping Jonathan Bodine still worked as a liaison
officer for the American Embassy in Paris. They had become
good friends while serving together in Vietnam, but it had been
several years since they last saw each other.
Charlie knew he was in luck when the operator at the embassy
said, "He'll be right with you."
143

' 'How's the liaison business, Bo?'' Charlie said when he heard
Bodine's low-pitched voice on the line.
"Good, Charlie. Life's been good."
"Hey, that's terrific, I really mean it. Look, I've got to talk to
you. It's important."
"What's going on, Charlie?" he asked.
"Over the phone? Are you losing it or something?"
A pause, then, "How about the Cafe Chagall across from the
embassy at six o'clock?"
"How about in twenty minutes. I have a deadline to meet at
six."
Another pause, then . . . "That important, huh?"
"Yep."
"See you then, Charlie."
As the taxi pulled up in front of the Cafe Chagall on avenue
Gabriel, Charlie could see Bodine's familiar bald head and wal-
rus mustache through the tinted window. He was standing at the
bar, sandwiched between several well-dressed men, drinking a
Pernod and water.
Still looks like your typical nonentity pencil pusher, Charlie
thought as he paid the driver. Nobody'd ever suspect ol' Bo of
being CIA.
Charlie had always known who paid Bodine's bills. He had
known about Bo's employers ever since they fought alongside
each other in Thua Thien Province. One night in a Saigon whore-
house, Bodine had gotten so piss-assed drunk that he told Charlie
everything he was doing, including his role in the covert opera-
tions in Cambodia. When he finished talking, he then proceeded
to throw up all over his mama san before passing out cold.
Charlie pushed his way through the crowded section of the bar
until he reached Jonathan Bodine. "That stuff will rot your brain,
Bo," he said, slapping him on the back.
"You're talking about absinthe. I'm drinking Pernod. Get your al-
cohol straight, Charlie, if you plan on getting shit-faced with me."
They laughed and threw their arms warmly around each other.
"Long time, no see. Looks like you grew a few inches,"
Bodine said, pinching Charlie's stomach.
"Those are love handles, chum," Charlie replied. He got the
bartender's attention and ordered a Remy in a snifter.
They talked about old times and relived war stories over two
more rounds of drinks. When the place began to empty out, they
drifted over to a table at the end of the cafe and sat down.
144

"So, what are you into now?" Charlie asked.
"Now? Not a hell of a lot. Times are tough since perestroika.
Before everybody became chummy with each other, I would sit
at some cafe, exactly like this one, and some frightened-looking
attache from an eastern bloc country would come over and sit
next to me. He'd order a cup of coffee, and his hands would be
shaking so bad that he'd spill the shit all over himself. Then he'd
give me some papers that he probably found in a wastepaper
basket at his embassy, and I'd hand him some money under the
table. Real secretive cloak-and-dagger bullshit! The whole fuck-
ing cafe would be watching us and laughing. So, that's what I
was into, Charlie." The smile left his face and he got serious.
"Now what are we into?"
Charlie held up two fingers to the bartender and pointed to
their empty glasses, then he turned to Bodine and said, "What
do you know about your organization during the Nazi occupation
of France?"
"What are you talking about? My company was first formed
after the war."
"But your predecessor was around."
"You mean the OSS?"
"Uh-huh."
"Now those motherfuckers knew how to conduct covert op-
erations!" Bodine said, his speech beginning to slur from the
liquor. "Alan Ladd parachuting into France in the middle of the
night and meeting babes like Geraldine Fitzgerald. Ever see that
movie? That's what I thought it was all about when I was a kid.
If someone ever told me I'd be spending my life taking not-so-
secret documents from Don Knotts look-alikes in cafes, I'd have
joined up with Abbie Hoffman in the sixties. At least he got
laid."
"What were the Alan Ladd guys called when they were on
operations in enemy territory?"
"Huh?"
"Were they called field agents?"
"Yeah. Real original, right? We're known for our creative
knack with words."
The waiter came with their drinks.
Bodine toasted Charlie by touching glasses then gulped down
half his drink. "So, what's this all about, Charlie? You planning
on writing a novel about my company? Now that's really origi-
nal! Only one out of every two books are written about us." He
145

wiped the glistening drops of Pernod with his thumb off his wal-
rus mustache.
"How do I find out what happened to one of those field
agents?" Charlie asked, sipping his Remy slowly.
"Are you serious? I highly doubt if the OSS kept great records
back then. They were just a bunch of regular G.I.s with a little
more on the ball than most who could speak another language.
They were given a few weeks of training, then dumped out of an
airplane over one of the occupied countries. Not many made it
back."
"Yeah, that's what I thought," Charlie said, resigned.
"Give me a name. I'll see if any of the old cronies back at
the office remember him from their OSS days.''
"Wilbur Striker."
Bodine didn't say anything for a few seconds; he just stared at
Charlie in amazement. Suddenly he broke into hysterical laugh-
ter and slapped his hand down hard on the table. "No, no, no
. . . say it ain't so!" He continued laughing and shaking his head
until his face turned a deep red.
"Hey, Bo, let me in on the joke, okay?"
"Wilbur Harrison Striker was head of operations in the Paris
office until his retirement fifteen years ago," he said, between
guffaws. "The fucker's legendary!" Bodine wiped the tears of
laughter from his eyes with the back of his hand. "The son of a
bitch made everybody's life miserable when he was in charge,
but he was good at his job, you had to give him that.''
"Shit! And I thought I was looking for a needle in a hay-
stack!" Charlie said.
"Nope, what you were looking for was the haystack!"
"Is he still living?"
"Barely. He's got emphysema. Never goes anywhere without
his oxygen mask. He owns a flat in the sixteenth arrondissement.
Tres posh! A full-time German male nurse lives with him."
' 'Do you think he'll talk to me?''
"Nope. That ornery bastard wouldn't even talk to the Presi-
dent of the United States when he tried to hang the Medal of
Honor around his neck." Bo then stood up and began to button
up his wrinkled London Fog raincoat. "Well, it's been fun, but
I gotta go and make my country safe for democracy."
"You okay?" Charlie asked, seeing the condition he was in.
"Shit, yeah!" Bodine said, swaying. "It's the only way I can
146

make it through the day.'' He was having trouble putting the last
button through the hole. Charlie stood up and helped him.
"I need Striker's home number. I doubt very much if he's
listed," Charlie said, smoothing down Bodine's collar.
Bodine had a smile around the comers of his mouth, and there
was an amused, almost playful look in his bloodshot eyes. "I'll
tell you what, Charlie, you stand near the phone at the bar and
I'll call you with it when I get back to my office. If you tell
anybody you got it from me, I'll cut your heart out, got it?"
"I got it."
"If you get that bastard to talk to you, dinner's on me," he
said as he stumbled toward the door.
"Hey, Bo," Charlie shouted across the cafe.
Bodine turned around.
"Thanks."
"Don't thank me yet. If you don't get to talk to him, it's dinner
at Maxim's on you, asshole." He smoothed back his thick mus-
tache and staggered out of the cafe.
Charlie went over to the bar, put his foot up on the brass rail,
ordered a double espresso, and waited.
Two minutes later the phone rang. The bartender picked it up.
After a beat he handed the receiver to Charlie. ' 'Pour vous, mon-
sieur. "
Charlie took the phone from him and within seconds had Stri-
ker's home number scribbled on the back of a box of matches.
And now for the hard part, he thought.
He gave the bartender twenty francs for the use of the phone,
then he called Striker's number.
After several rings, a man's voice answered in French with a
German accent.
Charlie asked in English to talk with Wilbur Striker.
"I am sorry but he cannot talk to anyone right now. He is
eating his dinner," the German-accented voice said firmly.
Charlie could hear Striker somewhere in the room on the other
end breathing heavily into a respirator. "Tell him it's his old
friend from Bordeaux calling, Baron Gustave de Montret."
"One moment, Herr baron."
The sound of muffled words could faintly be heard coming
from the man on the phone, then a gravelly voice responding to
him. After what seemed like minutes, he began to talk to Charlie
again.
"What is your real name, please?"
147

"Charles Halleran. I'm a reporter, but this has nothing to do
with my job. It's personal."
More clouded voices on the other end, then the man said to
him, "Do you know where the Place des Vosges is?"
"Of course. Near where the Bastille used to be."
"At six-thirty this evening go to the Place des Vosges and
stand directly in the center of it next to the fountains. If you are
one meter off in either direction you will meet no one. Is that
understood?"
"Understood," Charlie said.
The line went dead at the other end.
What the hell have you gotten me into, Rena my love? he
wondered, as he walked out of the cafe.
Chapter Fifteen
_B
y six-fifteen Charlie had found the exact center of the
Place des Vosges. He found it by counting his steps as he
walked lengthwise from one end of the large rectangular parade
ground to the other end. Dividing that in half, he then did the
same thing for the width. He felt like a damn idiot; late shoppers
and people going home from work would stop and shake their
heads in amusement, watching him goose-stepping across the
field.
Striker was smart, he thought to himself. The Place des Vosges
offered no protection, and he was standing right in the center of it.
Charlie waited there not daring to move for another half hour.
Autumn had finally come to Paris; it was damp and cold, and
the streets glistened from the wetness. He zipped up his leather
jacket, pulled up his fur collar, and stuck his hands into his
pockets for warmth. It didn't help much; the Parisian dampness
seeped down into his bones and made his teeth chatter.
It was getting dark out now, and the square was beginning
148

to empty out. In the distance he could see headlights of cars
whisking by on Rue St. Antoine but none of them stopped.
Where the hell was Striker? He'd better show! I'm going to be
up all night as it is trying to make the deadline for my paper. He
knew that he was out there somewhere, watching him freeze;
Charlie sensed that as deeply as he could feel the cold.
He looked at his watch. Five minutes more, that's all I'm
giving the son of a bitch! He swayed from foot to foot, trying to
keep warm. Suddenly he saw the headlights of a van go on that
was parked on the Boulevard Beaumarchais. It pulled out and
slowly moved in his direction. When it was a couple of hundred
feet away, the van stopped.
I should have been looking for a van all along. Striker's an
invalid, and a van would be his best way of getting around.
The driver, a tall stocky fellow with blond bangs, got out of
the vehicle, went around to the side, and slid the door open.
Inside, on a platform, a frail little man was sitting in an electric
wheelchair. He was covered with a blanket. The driver pressed
a button, and the steel platform descended to the curb. The little
man who Charlie knew had to be Striker motored his chair to-
ward him. He stopped a few feet away.
Charlie couldn't see Striker because he was well hidden in the
shadows behind the floodlights. A gurgling sound, like a diver
breathing underwater, came from his direction.
"Mr. Striker, I presume," Charlie said.
At first there was no reply, then Striker said, "Get over to the
light where I can see you." His voice sounded like there were
pebbles rattling around in the back of his throat.
Charlie did what he was told and walked over to the floodlight.
"What is it you want?" Striker asked abruptly.
"To find out if de Montret actually existed."
"Why?"
"His diary was discovered back in the States by the FBI. It
had your name in it."
Charlie heard Striker say under the loud sputter of his breath-
ing, "Damn that McKinney!"
He was stunned that he knew McKinney's name. As he began
to walk toward the wheelchair, Striker growled, "Stay where you
are!"
Charlie froze from the sharpness of the old man's voice.
"I'll tell you when to move!" he crackled.
The flame from a gold lighter appeared in Striker's shaky hand.
149

He brought it up to his face and lit a Gitane that he held between
his paper-thin lips.
For one brief second Charlie could see Striker's face in the
glow of the flame. Two plastic tubes protruded from his nostrils
and ran down the side of the chair and into a small oxygen tank
attached to the armrest. There were traces of a goatee on his
chin, and he wore a Basque cap on his head that hung down over
his ears. Thick veins, like blue rivers and their tributaries, ran
through his thin, bony hands. Then the flame went out and there
was darkness again.
Charlie knew better than to go by looks; disease may have
ravished Striker's body but his mind was intact.
"Why are you interested in de Montret?" the old man de-
manded to know.
' 'Because the same kinds of murders that the baron committed
two hundred years ago are now occurring in wine fields across
the United States," Charlie answered.
There was no response from Striker. The only way Charlie
knew that he was still there was from the sound of his mechanical
breathing and the red glow of his cigarette. Then he heard Striker
whisper those words again, "Damn you, McKinney!"
"The person accused of the killings is Maura McKinney, the
daughter of Peter McKinney," Charlie said, hoping that it would
provoke a response from Striker.
It did. Striker began coughing. The hacking sound came from
deep within his chest. Then Charlie could hear him spitting up
thick wads of phlegm. He wondered how much longer he was
given to live. Obviously the threat of imminent death didn't bother
Striker, since he still smoked.
Charlie looked over to the van. The big man with the bangs
was standing next to the open side door staring coldly at him. I
bet that's his German nurse, Charlie thought.
"I didn't know about the murders," Striker said, when the
coughing spell subsided.
"It was in all the papers. I even saw an article about it this
morning in the International Herald Tribune."
"I no longer read the papers," Striker said contemptuously.
' 'It was on all the TV stations
"I never watch television."
"How did you know Peter McKinney?"
"Why is it important to you?" Striker asked distrustfully.
"Someone I know happens to be a very close friend of
150

McKinney's daughter. That someone asked me to find out if the
de Montret journals were real or just the product of a sick mind.
I promised to do this for her," Charlie said sincerely.
"You're also a newspaperman," Striker snapped.
"I'm in Paris to cover the OPEC conference, that's all. Noth-
ing you say to me tonight will ever get into print."
"If it does I '11 kill you,'' he said ominously.
Charlie nodded. He believed Striker would do just that.
"You want to know how I met McKinney? All right, I'll tell
you. We met during the war. I was in the OSS and he was in
British intelligence," Striker said wearily. "He was one of only
a handful of IRA combatants that was willing to bury his griev-
ances with the Brits in order to fight the Germans. His French
was impeccable, even better than mine. Before the war he spent
time in France working in the wineries. We trained together in
Wales learning how to be good little spies. Before World War II
spying wasn't exactly a revered occupation."
Charlie could tell beneath the sarcasm that Striker and Mc-
Kinney must have been good friends.
"Our mission was to monitor German troop movements in
Bordeaux. On a wet night—similar to this one—we parachuted
into France. Several people from the Resistance were waiting for
us on the ground holding up lanterns to help pinpoint our land-
ing. One of them was a beautiful young girl named Clair de
Montret." Striker sighed deeply, then cleared his throat as if to
regain his poise.
Even though Charlie's teeth were now chattering uncontrol-
lably, he picked up the change in Striker's voice when he men-
tioned Clair. Was this old coot in love with her? he wondered.
"McKinney broke his ankle on the jump. The men carried
him to Clair's father's chateau ... the Chateau de Montret. Have
you ever heard of it?"
Charlie shook his head. "Not until the diary."
"Of course not. What would you know about great wines,"
he snickered. "If you owned a bottle with the Chateau de Mon-
tret label, it meant that you possessed the finest Bordeaux wine
in all of France. The de Montret family had been producing great
wines for hundreds of years."
"I'm a connoisseur of beers," Charlie mumbled.
Striker continued. "It was an old chateau . . . big . . . lots of
character. I only found out later how much character it really
possessed," he said with a chill in his voice. "Peter McKinney
151

stayed hidden in Clair de Montret's attic until his foot healed. I
worked as a French laborer in the winery—picking grapes . . .
bottling . . . doing a little bit of everything. In-between, I gath-
ered intelligence for the Allies."
"Is that when Clair fell in love with McKinney?" Charlie
couldn't see Striker, but he could feel his eyes penetrate him
when he asked that.
"Yes, she fell in love with him," he said sharply. "They fell
in love with each other." Again Striker let out a sigh, and it
sounded like a death rattle. "She was the one who took care of
him, stayed with him twenty-four hours a day, wiped his brow
when he was delirious with fever. His foot, you see, became
infected with gangrene. He would have died if it weren't for her
perseverance in keeping him alive."
The dampness in the air had now turned into a fine mist, and
Charlie was soaking wet; water ran down his face and into his
eyes. "Do you think we could maybe find a drier place to talk?''
He was so cold he was stuttering.
"Too wet for you?" Striker asked with some amusement.
Out of the darkness came Striker's skeletal hand holding a
silver flask.
"What's that?" Charlie asked.
"Cognac. Take it. I wouldn't want it on my conscience that
you caught pneumonia and died because of me."
Charlie grabbed it from him and took two large swallows. It
was good cognac and it went down smoothly. Within seconds
his body began to feel almost warm again.
Then Striker asked cheerfully, "Hungry, Mr. Halleran?"
His tone caught Charlie by surprise. "Yeah, sure." Anything
to get out erf this cold.
"Hans!" he screamed to the man still standing by the van.
The richness of his voice did not sound at all like that of a dying
man.
Hans, wearing a black leather trench coat, ambled over to
them.
"Our guest is hungry, Hans. Let's feed him," Striker said
vigorously, clapping and rubbing his hands together. He turned
the power of the motorized wheelchair back on and made his
way toward the van.
Smiling at Charlie with cold, dead eyes, Hans motioned for
him to follow.
After the electric platform had lifted Striker into the van, Hans
152

said to Charlie in a thick German accent, "Get in, please." He
grabbed Charlie's arm in a strong, viselike grip and hoisted him
up.
The van was custom-built for Striker. It was dark inside except
for a small light next to the table. Hans hopped in and strapped
Striker's chair to the wall and locked the wheels. He then picked
up the old man in his arms and gently eased him into a plush
chair by the table.
"Sit, please," Hans ordered Charlie.
Charlie sat down on the other side of him.
Hans opened the small refrigerator over by the wall; took out
cheese, bread, and hard salami, and placed them on the table.
Charlie's mouth began to water; until now he hadn't realized
how hungry he was.
Hans also grabbed a St. Pauli beer, took the cap off, and gave
it to Charlie. He then got into the driver's seat, turned on the
engine, and drove away.
Charlie dug into the food. It was only after the second piece
of cheese that he noticed Striker wasn't eating. He looked at him
quizzically.
"Please, my friend . . . eat," Striker said laughing. There
was still that tinge of sarcasm. "The only thing my stomach can
digest nowadays has to have the consistency of watered-down
gruel. I prefer my cognac to that."
"When did Clair and Peter McKinney get married?" Charlie
asked with a mouthful of salami.
"Ah, yes . . . Peter and Clair. They married in Bordeaux, in
the old church of Saint-Seurin. A lovely wedding. I was best
man. Unfortunately it was a mistake. I warned Peter that he
needed to keep a low profile, that he couldn't afford to stand out
and be noticed by the Nazis. But Clair's father, old de Montret,
wouldn't hear of it. It was his daughter's wedding, and he wanted
her to be married in Saint-Seurin. All the de Montrets have been
married there since the early sixteen hundreds." Striker paused
a second, then said caustically,' 'Well... all except one.'' Again
he paused to think. After a while, he continued. "The Nazis
eventually wanted to know who McKinney was. After all, he had
to be someone important to be able to marry the richest and
prettiest woman in Bordeaux. Then what I feared the most began
to happen. Inquiries were made about him from the Vichy gov-
ernment. When they looked over Peter's documents, they dis-
covered that he was using the name and papers of a man who'd
153

been dead for over fifty years. They came for him in the middle
of the night. He was arrested along with Clair and old de Mon-
tret. I hid in the cellar and watched from a small window as they
took him away. There was nothing I could do. If one of us was
killed or captured we were taught to go on with whatever job we
were doing and not to look back. Two days later McKinney es-
caped with the help of the Resistance. It was too late, however,
to help de Montret and Clair. The Germans had already executed
him the night before, and Clair had been sent to a labor camp in
Belgium. McKinney came to get me. He said that we had to
leave, that the Germans were coming to pillage de Montret's
chateau and then blow it up."
"Why do that?" Charlie asked.
"As a lesson to the people of Bordeaux. If you help the Allies,
not only will you be killed, but your belongings taken and your
house destroyed. Most of the time it worked. The French, you
see, place a higher regard on property than lives," he muttered
ungraciously.
' 'What about the journal?''
"I'm getting to that. We could hear the Germans coming.
They were only a short distance down the road. I grabbed
McKinney's arm to get him to run but he brushed me away and
rushed up the stairs of the chateau. He came down carrying a
frayed, leather-bound journal. He was like a man possessed. He
said, 'I have to destroy it! Nobody must ever find it! I promised
Clair!' He wanted to light a fire and burn it right then and there
but it was too late. The Germans were almost upon us. This time
I grabbed him by the waist and flung him out the door. We ran
and hid in the woods above Montret's chateau. We watched as
the Germans moved in. They took everything that wasn't nailed
down. Then they planted explosives and blew up that beautiful
estate. . . . Nothing was left standing. We raced through the
woods most of the night trying to get to the sea. A fishing trawler
was waiting there to pick us up. Not far back, we could hear the
soldiers' dogs begin to bark; they discovered our scent. The Ger-
mans found us and started shooting. We made it to the sea, but
not before I was hit in the stomach by a bullet. As I lay in the
sand I could see McKinney deciding about what to do with the
journal. He then put it in his backpack. From then on everything
was vague. McKinney carried me into the water toward a waiting
raft. I remember begging him to leave me, but he wouldn't hear
of it. He said that he had already lost two people that were dear
154

to him. I blacked out. When I came around again I found myself
lying in a berth on the ship. Peter was sitting next to me reading
from those old parchments. I had never seen him looking so
distraught, not even when he found out that Clair had been taken
out of France by the Nazis. I asked him what was in them, but
all he did was shake his head. He took the diary and left the
cabin. Then I also became a man possessed: I had to know what
was in that diary. What was so important about it that would
make McKinney risk his life at the chateau, refusing to leave
without the manuscript? I had to know! Somehow I managed to
get my wounded body off the cot and followed him down the
passageway. He went into the boiler room. From the crack in the
door, I watched him fling the book into the furnace. Just then
the alarm sounded, warning the crew that enemy ships were close
by. He ran out of the furnace room and back to his quarters. I
hid behind the steps until he was out of sight. Then I went into
the room, grabbed a shovel, and quickly took out the remains of
the book. It was badly charred but most of it was still readable.
I took it back with me and hid it under my cot. The next day we
arrived in the English Channel, and Peter was rafted over to
Brighton to undergo debriefing. I was taken further down the
channel to Bournemouth where I spent two months recuperating
from my wound. I spent most of my time in the hospital trans-
lating that horrible journal into English!"
Striker took out another Gitane and lit it with his gold lighter.
As he deeply inhaled the thick smoke, the sound coming from
his diseased lungs reminded Charlie of the motor from his trop-
ical fish tank that he kept in his bedroom as a kid.
"Open up the cabinet in back of you," he commanded Char-
lie.
Charlie turned around and opened up the oak cabinet. It was
filled with an array of liqueurs and brandies.
"Take out the dusty bottle. It's one-hundred-year-old cognac.
What the hell am I keeping it for!" he grumbled. "I'll be dead
in six months, and I don't want my last thoughts to be of regret
that I left this beautiful cognac behind to be pillaged by Hans."
Charlie stood up and handed it to him. Striker popped the cork
with his frail fingers.
"You're too used to drinking American piss that passes itself
off as beer, Halleran. You need crystal for this kind of stuff. Get
them out of the cabinet, for Christ sakes!"
Turning around again, Charlie took two Baccarat snifters from
155

the cabinet and placed them on the table. Striker handed him
back the bottle so he could pour.
They sipped their cognacs in silence for a while, letting the
alcohol warm their bones. Then Charlie asked, "Is the journal
real?"
"Yes, it's real, all right. I had it carbon-dated after the war
was over. It was written two hundred years ago, that's for sure."
"How did Peter McKinney get the journal into his possession
again?"
"I brought it to him, that's how. I heard that he found Clair in
a relocation camp after the war. He owned some property in
Northern California that was willed to his family by some great-
grand uncle or something. He decided to take Clair there and
start a new life. The great chateau of her father was destroyed
along with his wine fields, and there was nothing left for them
in France or Ireland. Fourteen years later I came to San Francisco
on business and I went to Napa to find them. I took the journal
with me." There was a pause, then he said slowly, "I didn't
know Clair had died in childbirth. I was stunned. Maura was
two years old at that time. She was the most beautiful child I had
ever seen. My God was she ever! McKinney and I went and sat
out on his porch overlooking his vineyards and talked about the
war. But I really wasn't listening; I was too busy staring at his
daughter playing by herself near the steps. With that long blond
hair, she was an exact replica of Clair."
It was dark, but Charlie could see the old man's eyes beginning
to water.
' 'I gave McKinney the parchments and my translation of the
diary. He turned pale when he saw them. He took them from
me, but he didn't want to talk about it. When I insisted, he
became enraged at first, then gave in. I asked him how he orig-
inally came upon it. He said that Clair had told him about its
existence when they were first married, but not of its contents.
For almost two hundred years the de Montret family had been
secretly handing down the journal to their children. She said that
if anything ever happened to her or her father that he had to
destroy it. No one, she" said, was ever to know what was in it.
That's why Peter was so adamant about retrieving the diary be-
fore escaping from the chateau that night. He now knew I was
cognizant of everything in the journal, and he made me promise
that I would not tell anyone about it. I agreed, and until now I
156

had kept that promise. That day in his vineyard was the last time
we ever saw each other."
The cognac was doing the job; Charlie was still wet but he no
longer felt it. He poured himself another glass. "Did you inves-
tigate the baron? It couldn't have been that difficult for you, being
the head of the CIA in France and all that."
"Certainly I investigated the baron," he snapped. "I even
visited his damn grave! According to the records he was seventy-
two years old when he died."
"How did he die?"
"According to the records?"
"Yes."
"From old age."
"Did you believe that?"
"Hell, no! What I believed more was the folklore that ran
rampant in the flatlands of Bordeaux about the baron."
"Like what?"
"That it was the souls of the men and women he murdered in
the vineyards that rose up from their graves and killed him. They
say he was held down by the rotting corpses of his victims and a
stake made of vines from his vineyard was driven through his
heart."
"Shades of Bela Lugosi," Charlie said.
"All folklore is based on actuality. Let's just say he was killed.
I had his crypt opened with the permission of the French gov-
ernment."
Chariie's eyes brightened.
"Interesting. All the de Montrets had their crypts right next
to each other ... all except Gustave de Montret. His was hastily
put together with limestone and kept away from the rest."
"You opened the casket?"
"Yes. Oh, he was murdered all right. I had his bones shipped
to Paris for testing. He was stabbed numerous times, and almost
every bone was broken from repeated blows to the body."
"Who did it?"
"Probably the townspeople. They discovered what he had been
doing all those years. The thing is no de Montret was allowed
back on the land for almost fifty years after Gustave had died.''
Charlie put his glass back on the table; he was feeling the
effects of the cognac. "I didn't know the baron had a family. He
never mentioned them in his journal.''
"He had a brother who owned a winery in the Cote d'Or
157

region of Burgundy. It was the baron's grandnephews who even-
tually took over the vineyards again in Bordeaux."
Charlie brushed at his eyes, trying to clear his head. "The
baron was a psychopath. That's not an inherited trait. Why would
someone in his family two hundred years later be committing the
same type of crimes?"
"I am not a psychiatrist, Mr. Halleran. I'm just a retired em-
ployer of assassins.''
Charlie leaned in closer to the old man. "Do you remember
the sections in the journal?"
"Mr. Halleran. I remember every section written in that vile
diary," Striker said coldly.
"What happened in the last entry?"
Striker's eyes hardened. "I thought you read the diary."
"The last section was torn from your notebook."
Striker closed his eyes and smiled. "Ahhh, then you don't
know?"
"Know what?" Charlie asked, confused.
"I misunderstood you. I thought you said you had read the
entire translation." His eyes played across Charlie's face.
"You wrote that it was the most horrible of all the sections.
What was in it?"
Again Striker smiled. "I thought you knew. That's why this
conversation between us has gone this far. Now I would be be-
traying Peter and Clair if we continued this discussion. What was
in that last section of the journal has no bearing on Maura or
these murders."
"What was in it? That's all I'm asking." Charlie could feel
the blood rushing through his temples.
"We'll never know, will we?" Striker said. "Now, Mr. Hal-
leran, I'm beginning to feel tired. As much as I've enjoyed your
company, I'm afraid our time together is up."
Shit! Charlie thought. We were so goddamn close! "Look, I
promise you nothing we discuss will be in tomorrow's papers if
that's what you're worried about."
"I believe you, Charlie." There was an elfish look in the old
man's small face. "Hans, let Mr. Halleran out."
Hans pulled the van over and stopped the motor. He got out
and pushed open the side door. The mist outside had now turned
into a full downpour.
"Goodnight, Charlie," Striker said, smiling.
Charlie didn't want to leave, but when he looked at Hans's
158

thick body and cold, snakelike eyes he knew he didn't have much
choice. "Good night, Striker," Charlie replied, sighing. He
jumped out of the van and into the darkness. The hard rain hit
him in the face, almost blinding him, but he could tell that he
was surrounded by woods. "Hey, this isn't Paris!" Charlie yelled,
turning toward the van.
The side door slammed shut. A few seconds later Hans stuck
his head out of the driver's window and said, laughing, "It's
down the road on your left, Herr Halleran. You can't miss it."
Chuckling even louder, he tossed him the cognac flask, rolled up
the window, and sped off into the night.
Fighting the rain, Charlie walked several feet down the dark,
deserted road until he came to a sign. His heart sank when he
read it.
Paris -15 kilometers
Striker made sure this won't make the morning papers, Charlie
thought to himself. By the time he reached Paris, morning would
have already come and gone.
Pulling the fur collar over his head, he took a long swallow
from the flask and began the endless walk back to his hotel. He
didn't want to think about how angry his editor would be tomor-
row when he found nothing on his fax machine about the pro-
ceedings at the OPEC conference.
' 'You sure as hell owe me for this one, Ree!'' he said out loud,
as the rain came down harder.
Chapter Sixteen
_H
arriet Crowe sat alone at the corner table of Pandora's
Box and sipped a Kir through two thin red straws. She pre-
ferred this table over the others because the spotlight directly
above her head was burned out, leaving the area in darkness.
159

There wasn't much light in the crowded bar to begin with; mainly
just a few tracks, with red and blue gels covering the bulbs for
atmosphere. Pandora's wasn't the kind of place that liked calling
attention to itself by being too well lit. It was a lesbian bar, and
lesbian bars were not plentiful nor welcome in Boise.
She sipped her drink slowly, keeping her eyes glued to the wet
cocktail napkin on the table. Why didn't I color my hair before
going out tonight? she angrily berated herself. There were streaks
of gray in it, and she suddenly felt very old compared to the other
women here.
Harriet tried to avoid eye contact with the customers. Occa-
sionally she would glance over to the small, darkened dance floor
at the back of the bar. She could make out the figures of several
couples with their arms locked around their partners' hips as they
slowly swayed to the beat of an Anita Baker song. Over near the
jukebox, two young women were leaning against the wall. They
were whispering, giggling, stroking each other. Bottles of Coors
dangled from their hands.
Harriet looked away. Her stomach was beginning to tie itself
into knots. What if someone noticed her in this place? My God,
I was a fool for coming here! Boise was a small city, and she
held a prominent position on the school board. If it ever leaked
out that she was gay or there was even a hint of scandal in that
direction, she would never be reelected to that post again.
Finish your drink and leave! she thought, disgusted with her-
self. She turned her sad, puffy face away from the crowd so no
one would recognize her.
The last time she had been to one of these places was right
after she finally acknowledged to herself that she was gay. That
was many years ago. Then she met Martha, and they had lived
together in a monogamous relationship for the past twenty-three
years. She was everything to Harriet: a friend, a companion, and
a lover. Six months ago Martha had discovered a malignant tu-
mor under her right armpit while in the shower. Three weeks
later she was dead. There was not much time for good-byes, not
even time to go over old photograph albums and relive youthful
memories together. A relationship that took twenty-three years
to build was smashed to pieces in three weeks.
The pain of Martha's death was strong, but the pain of lone-
liness was even stronger. She came here tonight because she
needed to go out, to be with people, to be with her own kind.
Regretfully she realized that the type of people who went to
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Pandora's Box had nothing in common with her, even if their
sexual preferences were the same. What would I talk to them
about? They 're just here for immediate physical gratification.
Would they know who George Sand was ?. . .or Gertrude Stein ?
I doubt it! My God, this was a terrible mistake!
Harriet looked around the room for the waitress. She wanted
to pay her check and leave. Then the front door opened and she
saw a tall woman with long blond hair and wearing a black mini-
skirt enter Pandora's. The blonde sauntered up to the bar, or-
dered a drink, then turned to face the room. She brazenly leaned
against the counter, resting her elbows on the mahogany top
while scrutinizing the tables. The bartender handed her a scotch
and water and she drank half of it down in one gulp.
Yes, she was definitely looking for action, Harriet believed.
She was beautiful but not her type. Her hair looked greasy, and
she probably needed a bath. Never in a million years! Much too
common. In fact, none of them here had anything to do with her.
The only person she was capable of loving, she unfortunately
concluded, was buried deep beneath the ground.
She glanced over to the woman again. There was something
strange about her . . . what was it? She certainly wasn't anyone
she knew. Good God, she wouldn't associate with anyone like
that!
As if the blonde could read her mind, she turned in Harriet's
direction and smirked.
A shudder went through Harriet's petite, middle-aged body.
The blonde appeared to be smiling, but it was actually a sneer.
Her mouth slit open into a mock grin, revealing lipstick-stained
teeth. Then her tongue slithered out of her mouth like a large
Moray eel and made a full wet circle around her lips. Was she
ridiculing me? Harriet wondered, shaken.
Harriet looked away. This woman was evil, she could feel it
in her belly. She was frightened; her legs felt weak, as if they no
longer contained bones in them for support. She also had this
strong urge to urinate. What do I do? she thought.
Just pay the bill and walk out!
The blonde was still leering at her. Harriet quickly took ten
dollars out of her purse and dropped it on the table for the Kir
and the tip. She didn't want to stay around for the waitress to
bring the tab. In her rush to stand up, she dropped her purse.
Coins, credit cards, Lifesavers, and Kleenex toppled out and
scattered everywhere over the floor. A hot wave of fear engulfed
161

her. As she bent down to pick up her belongings, two slender
hands with long, deep red fingernails came into her field of vi-
sion. The hands began to help collect her things. Harriet looked
up and saw two eyes grinning at her; one blue, the other brown.
Her mouth dropped open from dread. She had never seen any-
thing like that before in her life. A weak, "Thank you," was all
she could manage from her dry mouth.
The blonde didn't say anything, but the smirk remained.
Harriet peered into those unearthly eyes. The pupils seemed
dilated, giving the illusion of madness.
She quickly stood up and walked past her toward the front
door. Harriet knew the blonde was watching her leave. She could
feel those strange eyes, like hot coals, burning into her back.
Standing alone in the deserted, dark parking lot, another surge
of fear shot through her. Once again she felt the need to urinate
and several drops seeped out before she was able to stop it. She
just wanted to get away from here as quickly as possible. If only
she had stayed home tonight!
She began running toward her car while fumbling through her
purse for her keys. Now where were those damn things! Ah, there
they are! Harriet got in, locked all the doors, and started the
engine.
Never again will I come here! Never! Martha, I love you.
was just so lonely. Please forgive me.
On the way home, she looked in the rearview mirror every
other second, fearing that she was being followed. All she could
see was the black night broken up by an occasional street lamp.
She began to relax a little. Her thighs were wet and cold from
her pee, but at least she was safe.
This is nonsense! she thought ten minutes later as she entered
Caldwell. That woman was just probably on something, that's
all. She wasn 't out to hurt me. I'm just not cut out for these crazy
types. But the colors of those eyes . . . how could that be? My
God, but she was bizarre. At least I learned my lesson, Martha.
Never, never will I do this again.
She thought about the strange woman. Suddenly the fear re-
turned, larger than before. Holding one hand on the steering
wheel, she groped for her purse on the seat next to her and stuck
her hand inside. Her fingers scurried around, frantically search-
ing for her wallet. It wasn't there!
"Oh no!" she moaned. It was probably still on the floor back
in the bar.
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She pulled over to the side of the road and stopped the car.
Should she go back? Then she remembered the blond woman
and her legs started to shake.
No, she could not go back. I'll call them when I get home,
she thought. Hopefully, they won't recognize my name on my
credit cards and license. At least there was nothing inside the
wallet containing her work address.
But her license did contain her home address!
Then another thought struck her. What if that woman had it!
Never again, Martha!
When she reached her house in the outskirts of Caldwell, she
drove into the garage and quickly closed the automatic door. It
was mostly country around here, and her nearest neighbor was
a good three hundred yards away. She and Martha bought this
property because they liked the seclusion.
She stopped the motor, closed her eyes, leaned back in the
seat, and took a deep breath. She stayed that way for a few min-
utes, continuing to breathe, letting the oxygen filter out the fears.
Beginning to feel her natural self again, she got out of the car
and entered her house through the door in the garage. She double
bolted the latch from the inside, turned on the light, then climbed
the stairs leading up to the kitchen.
The house was dark but all the doors were locked. When they
first bought the house, they argued about the need for security
locks. Martha liked the idea that they were living in an area
where no one locked doors and ridiculed Harriet about her fears.
' 'You're just afraid of your own shadow,'' she used to say, laugh-
ing. Harriet won out. The locks were installed, and tonight she
was grateful for that.
She turned the light on in the kitchen. After she fed Pumpkin,
she'd call the bar about her wallet. Now where was Pumpkin?
Normally Pumpkin, a fourteen-year-old, overfed Pekingese,
would rush over with a shrill bark to greet her.
"Pumpkin. Where are you sweetheart?" she cooed loudly as
she took off her sweater and hung it neatly over the chair by the
kitchen table. Usually Pumpkin would give off a couple of high-
pitched yelps, waddle over to her, stretch, then lick the tips of
Harriet's shoes. This time, however, she didn't come to her. In
fact, there wasn't even a sound.
Harriet went into the dark living room. "Pumpkin pie, are
you in Mommy's bedroom?"
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Again silence.
The first thing that crossed Harriet's mind was Pumpkin's heart
condition. She was old, with bad breath and rotted teeth, and the
veterinarian didn't give her much longer to live. Worried, she
quickly walked over to the steps leading to the bedrooms up-
stairs. She listened for noises coming from up in one of the
rooms. Nothing, just the whooshing sound of the wind blowing
against the curtains through her bedroom window.
Harriet turned on the light switch for the upstairs landing. It
didn't go on. The bulb must have burned out, she thought. She
went up the steps and into the darkness.
"Pumpkin, Mommy wants you. Are you all right?" she whis-
pered nervously. Harriet hated dark places. She groped her way
over to the master bedroom, stuck her hands inside, and felt for
the wall light. When she found the switch, she turned it on.
Nothing.
Harriet was now terrified. Two different light fixtures burning
out at the same time was impossible. What's going on?
There was a full moon tonight and its glow shrouded the bed-
room in a bluish hue. The wind was blowing so hard outside that
it made her Chantilly lace curtains over the window stand straight
out.
Why was the window open ?
That's when Harriet noticed the jagged edges of the broken
glass and splintered wood in the frame.
My God! Somebody's broken in!
Her foot touched something soft on the floor. She looked
down. It was dark but there was enough moonlight infiltrating
the room to see the twisted figure of Pumpkin lying at the foot
of the bed. The Pekingese's neck was broken, and the head was
twisted completely around to the back of its own body. Its lifeless
eyes were staring straight up into Harriet's frozen, horrified face.
In the next second there was the sound of padded footsteps on
the carpet behind her. Someone was in the room.
Harriet didn't want to turn around to see who it was. She
already knew. Her bladder gave out and her urine rushed freely
down her thick thighs.
Forgive me, Martha!
164

Chapter Seventeen
_S
he lay in a fetal position on the grass and watched a large
scarab beetle slowly maneuver its body around the weeds
and pebbles next to her foot. When it touched her leg, it paused
and extended its antennae. Sensing that the black nylon stocking
wasn't dangerous, the beetle decided to climb over her calf rather
than trek around it.
She watched through slit eyes, entranced, as the insect scam-
pered down the other side of her limb, fell on its back, rolled
over again with some difficulty, then scurried under a mound of
wet leaves.
The shrieks of crows overhead made the auditory nerves in
her ears tingle. She looked up at the dawn sky. There they were
. . . circling above . . . looking for food.
Food. Oh, God, food! Her hunger was so strong that just the
thought of eating caused the saliva to flow in her mouth.
It was cold, and she shivered every time a gust of wind blew
up her black leather miniskirt. She rubbed her arms to generate
some warmth, but her hands were too numb to do any good.
Once again she heard the piercing clamor of the crows. It was
hurting her head. She watched them make one more swooping
dive searching for something to eat, then they moved on to an-
other location.
Her head was throbbing fiercely now, and over the pain was
that awful sound of metal sliding against metal once more.
She put her thighs up to her forehead and clamped her arms
around her knees, squeezing tight, hoping to push away the hurt.
Her eyes began to tear from the agony. Within minutes the ache
started to fade and she was able to see again. She unlocked her
head from her knees and sat up on the grass.
Her body felt dehydrated, and her arms were stiff and aching.
There was also a sharp pain in the area of her groin.
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The smell of pinecones ... the sound of distant traffic. She
was in a park. Which one?
Why am I here?
She looked around. There was a green, wooden bench nearby,
and next to that was a jogging path. The grass all around her was
covered with pinecones. What park is this ? It didn't look familiar
at all .
A jogger, decked out in black-and-red Spandex, ran by her
prone body. For a brief moment she thought she could see a look
of distaste come over his face when he glanced her way, then he
turned his eyes back to the path, and kept running.
Why was he looking at me like that? she wondered.
It was too cold to sit here any longer. She had to move. As
she stood up, she saw a tote bag and her leather purse beneath
the bench. She walked unsteadily over to them, bent down, and
opened up the purse. Putting her hand inside, she pulled out a
bloodstained ball-peen hammer. Why is this in here? she won-
dered. Then she remembered the spike and hammer she found
in the station wagon, and she moaned with fright. She threw it
back in the bag and took out whatever else was inside: credit
cards, more receipts, Alamo rental car keys for the white station
wagon, and the same sixty-five dollars from the last time she looked.
The credit card receipts were from a motel and restaurants in
Boise, Idaho. She then unzipped the tote. The K mart clothes
that were in the closet of the cabin were now inside the bag.
What were these doing here? Where the hell am I?
Maura knew that she must have blacked out again. How long
this time? A day? A week? Boise! Christ, she needed help! This
couldn't go on. Have to get to a phone . . . call Uncle Wiggly.
The metal sounds became louder. Please, dear God, don't let
me black out again!
She put the tote over her shoulder, grabbed the purse, and
began following the path, hoping that it would lead out of the
park.
The sky was turning a lighter gray now, and there were more
joggers on the path. She tried to stop one, to ask where she was,
but he gave her that same strange look as the other runner and
kept on going.
The trail was long, meandering its way around a soccer field
and a duck pond. Her feet hurt from the open-toe pumps, and
there was that fierce shooting pain again in the upper part of her
groin. Eventually she saw a gated fence with a parking lot on the
166

other side. She continued on the path until it entered onto a main
thoroughfare. Her body felt weightless; if a strong wind came
along, she believed it could easily lift her up and carry her through
the city.
There was a trash can on the corner. She went over to it and
searched through the garbage until she found a rumpled-up sports
section from a newspaper. Her fingers tore at the pages as she
tried to unfold it. Hopefully there would be some mention of the
date and the name of the town or city she was in. Then she saw
it on the top right-hand corner of the page and she gasped:
BOISE, IDAHO September 20, 1990
This time she had blacked out for three days! Boise! How did
I get here?
Across from the park was an aluminum trailer-type diner that
seemed open. Maybe they have a phone . . . need to call Uncle
Wiggty. She crossed the street and went inside.
There were several men, mostly laborers wearing jeans and
work boots, sitting at the counter and eating breakfast. Their
faces were lined and their hands callused from a life of hard
work. They turned and stared at her when she walked in. Ignor-
ing their looks, she went over to the counter to talk to the man
behind it. Her stomach began to churn from the rich, warm odor
of scrambled eggs, bacon, pancakes, and coffee.
The high pitch of sirens could be heard coming from some-
where far away. They got louder and louder, causing the custom-
ers in the diner to put down their forks and look out the window.
Several police cars sped past the restaurant, heading out toward
the direction of Caldwell. The men at the counter looked con-
cerned; it was unusual to see half the police force of Boise going
out on the same call. One of the men said he heard that someone
was murdered in the vineyards outside of Caldwell. They all
agreed that whatever happened had to have been bad.
After that discussion ended, the owner—a short guy with a
two-day-beard growth on his face—went over to the end of the
counter and looked this strange woman up and down. With a
sneer on his face, he put his hairy fists on the Formica top, leaned
in, and said, "Need a menu, sister?"
"No," she replied, confused by his attitude. She looked over
at the other customers; they were sneaking glances her way while
chewing their food. "First I need a phone."
167

Without taking his eyes off her, he pointed with his thumb to
the back of the diner.
"Thank you. I also want scrambled eggs and bacon."
"You got any money?" he asked.
"Of course. Why?"
"You want to show it to me?" Those hairy hands now went
up to his hips.
"I don't believe this!" she said indignantly. She opened up
her purse, took out a fistful of fives and tens, and held them up
to his face. "That enough?"
He shrugged and nodded. "The phone's over near the toilet.
It's got a sink in there in case you want to clean up. You must
have had a hell of a night, sweetheart," he said, smirking.
Some of the men at the counter snickered.
Oh, Christ, I must look a mess! she thought, now understand-
ing why everyone stared at her strangely.
The clanking of metal came and went in her head. She needed
to get to a phone!
She found it right where the counterman told her it was, next
to a half-opened door with a sign on it marked "Bathroom."
There were some coins at the bottom of her purse. She grabbed
a handful and dropped them into the slots. Please be there, Uncle
Wiggly.
After several rings, someone picked up. "Thank God you're
there! It's me, Maura." Tears streamed down her face. "What's
happening to me? . . . No, I don't know what's going on. Please
help me! . . .I'm sorry, I can't seem to control myself. ... I
know. . . . Boise, Idaho . . . No, I don't know how I got
here. . . . I've been blacking out. I need medicine. I don't have
any with me. . . . Who's looking for me? . . . The FBI? . . .
Why? . . . What murders? ... Oh, God! . . . Dear, sweet God!
... I couldn't have!" she screamed.
Then she thought about the bloodied hammer that she was
carrying inside her purse. Then about the red stains on the spike
and scalpel she found in the trunk of the station wagon. Then
she remembered the jar of formaldehyde with those gray things
floating in it. Her eyes clamped shut and she squeezed down hard
on the receiver; the realization of what she did began to formulate
in her mind. But why?
"I don't know what to do!" she cried. "I'm in a diner, some-
where across from a park. . . . How could I have done such a
thing? . . .I'm going to call the police. . . . Why not? ... All
168

right, I'll wait until I see you. . . . The airport? ... I have some
money and credit cards. . . . Why can't I use them? . . . Yes,
you're right, I'm just not thinking clearly. . . . Can you transfer
cash to me?" She brushed the strands of greasy blond hair from
her face. "Hold on, let me find the number." She looked at the
pay phone. "555-0525 . . . No, I can't read the area code, it's
rubbed off. Get it from the operator. . . . Yes, I'll be here wait-
ing for your call."
She hung up and rested her head against the wall. Her legs
were trembling from fear as well as from hunger. How could I
have killed all those people? Am I that insane? Yet when Uncle
Wiggly told her the way those people were murdered, it didn't
seem strange at all. It was right from Gustave de Montret's diary.
Why have I done these horrible things? Oh, Jesus, I knew I was
just like that man!
Why was she copying the actions of that monster? She remem-
bered, after reading the diary, how cursed she felt. Was that it
... a curse? If so, then she was grateful that she was the last of
the de Montret bloodline.
Please call me back, Uncle Wiggly!
The area near her groin was pulsating. She went into the bath-
room. The phone was right next to it, and when Uncle Wiggly
called back she would be able to get to it without any trouble.
She took the hammer out of her bag, dropped it in the wastebas-
ket, and covered it over with paper towels she took from the rack
on the wall.
The mirror above the sink was coated with grime, but she was
able to make out sections of her face. She recoiled in horror: her
lips, cheeks, and teeth were smeared with bright red lipstick,
and her hair was coated with grease and hung down in strings.
Dirt and pieces of grass covered her face and clothes. She was
pale and gaunt. Then she saw her eyes: they were sunken deep
into her skull, and the skin on her face stretched tightly over her
cheekbones.
Oh no! She suddenly realized that she didn't have her green
contacts in. No wonder people had been looking at her strangely.
What had she done with them? She would have to find sun-
glasses. No one was supposed to see her like this!
My God, what is happening to me?
She turned the tap on above the sink. The hot spigot refused
to move and she had to wash with cold water. It was hard re-
moving the lipstick from her face, but with rigorous scrubbing it
189

began to come off. She then took out a skirt and a sweater from
the tote and quickly removed the leather miniskirt and black top
she was wearing.
That's when she saw her arms. There were scrapes, scratches,
and hematomas running down along her biceps and forearms.
She then noticed a drop of blood on her underwear. Taking
them off, she searched for the source of the bleeding. She found
a deep cut on the inside, upper part of her groin. It was swollen
and red. How did that happen ? It looked infected. After washing
the wound, she changed into the skirt and sweater.
She suddenly heard loud police sirens somewhere outside. Her
heart beat fast as she rushed over to the small window next to
the urinal and looked out.
Across the street, two police cars had stopped next to the white
station wagon with tinted windows that was parked near the curb.
Four policemen rushed out, drew their guns, and surrounded the
car. Using handkerchiefs on the door handles, they opened them
up, and looked in. Then one of them went around in back and
opened the rear door.
Sweat ran down her face as she watched them take out the
bloodied sheet containing the spike and scalpel. Next, they re-
moved the jar with those gray things suspended in the formal-
dehyde.
She turned away from the window, her face iced in terror.
Do they know that I'm across the street in the diner? Oh,
please, no!
A knock on the bathroom door, then a voice saying, "Hey,
cookie, your breakfast's getting cold."
"I'll be right out," she managed to gasp.
The footsteps from outside the bathroom faded back into the
diner.
Why hasn 't Uncle Wiggly called back?
She couldn't afford to wait any longer for him. She had to get
away now, before they came after her. Uncle Wiggly was right:
she needed to get back to Napa and see him before giving herself
up. Her body was strung out and her nerves were on edge. Soon
the anxiety attacks were going to start up. She needed her med-
icine. Why hadn't she taken the pills with her? Grabbing her
purse and tote, she stuck her head out of the bathroom and looked
down both ends of the small hallway. To the left was a back door.
That was her only choice. Hopefully it was unlocked. She tried
the handle. The metal door opened easily. The street on this side
170

of the diner was empty. Across from it was a vacant lot, and after
that an alley that divided two apartment houses.
As she walked down the steps and into the street, she could
hear the phone ringing.
Was that him calling? It was too late to go back. She would
have to wait until she could get to another phone to talk with
him.
She crossed the street, and when she came to the vacant lot,
she quickened her pace. She desperately wanted to see if anyone
was behind her, but she knew she couldn't chance stopping. Then
she came to the alley with its brick walls. About a hundred yards
away was a Main Street. She prayed that Boise had cabs or a
transportation system of some kind. What she needed to do now
was to gain as much distance from the Ford station wagon and
the police as possible.
With any luck she'd make it to the other side of the city, find
a gas station with a pay phone, and call Uncle Wiggly back. He
always knew what to do.
And Rena . . . yes, she had to call Rena. She's the one other
person in her life that cared about her.
She came out of the alley and onto the street. A bus, just a
couple of blocks away, was heading in her direction. It didn't
matter so much where it was going as long as it was away from
here. She walked over to the bus stop and waited for it alongside
several other passengers.
She gave the driver the correct amount for the fare when she
got in and walked toward the back, ignoring the now-familiar
stares of the other passengers. Yes, Rena would help me, she
thought, sitting down. Somehow I've got to get to her before I
black out again!
171

Chapter Eighteen
_R
ena was shaving her legs in the shower when she heard
the phone ringing. Eight in the morning. Who the hell is
calling me at this hour?
She got out of the stall, wrapped a towel around her body, and
went into the bedroom to answer the phone.
"Hello?" she said, taking a tissue from the top of the dresser
drawer and wiping away a drop of blood on her leg from where
the blade nicked her. The line on the other end sounded scratchy,
as if it were coming from a long distance.
"Bonjour, mon petite," Charlie said. Then he sneezed.
"Charlie? Where are you?" She was happy to hear his voice.
"In Paris and I'm soaked to the bone." He sneezed again. "I
met Mister Wilbur Striker. Hell of a guy. I'm thinking about
putting him on my list as a future drinking buddy."
"He's real?" she asked breathlessly.
"Unfortunately, yes."
She picked up on his sarcasm. "Are you all right?"
"Wet and tired. Did a lot of walking through the French coun-
tryside last night. Got lots of fresh air."
"What about de Montret?" Her tone was serious.
"He, unfortunately, was also real. He made Ted Bundy look
like Peter Pan."
"What happened to him?"
"Striker thinks he was murdered by the good citizens of
France.'' He then told her how Striker and Peter McKinney were
in the OSS together back in World War II.
"Did he remember what was in the last section of the jour-
nal?" she asked.
' 'He wouldn't tell me, but by his reaction I'd say he remembers
all right. He claimed that it had nothing to do with Maura or the
murders that are happening now. I think the guy's full of shit.
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He's protecting the memory of Clair McKinney. That bloodless,
old bastard had the hots for her. I have to go and dry off,'' Charlie
said. Then he added, "You were one of Maura's best friends. If
she's still alive, she may not have anyone else to turn to but you.
Be careful, okay?"
That idea had already crossed her mind. "Okay," she whis-
pered.
He said he'd see her in a few weeks then hung up.
At least the diary and Striker are now confirmed! she thought.
The cut opened on her leg again, and she stuck a piece of tissue
on the wound.
Yes, Charlie's right, I am one of Maura's best friends. Yet she
must have made other friends while living in New York. And
what about lovers? There was never any mention of them in her
letters and phone conversations. Why hadn't any of her friends
surfaced since she became implicated in the murders? Is it pos-
sible that she had lived in seclusion all these years? Christ, what
a prison that would be! To reside in a city of so many people and
remain alone, an outsider. She had questioned Maura on several
occasions about her social life. She was always evasive, only
saying that her spare time was filled with theater, museums, and
charity events.
Never people . . . just events.
Again Rena was reminded of Uncle Wiggly. Did he really exist
or was he the invention of an unstable mind?
She went downstairs to the kitchen, grabbed a mug from the
shelf, and poured herself a cup of coffee. The phone rang again.
She walked into the den to pick it up. It was Agent Grant.
"Another one," he said somberly.
"Oh, God! Where?"
"Boise, Idaho."
"Boise! How did she get that far without being detected?"
' 'We're not sure,'' Grant said. ' 'Did you know that there were
vineyards in Idaho?"
"There are vineyards all over this goddamn country, Mar-
vin," Rena said impatiently. "Who was the victim?"
Grant sighed. "A member of their school board. Probably a
lesbian." He told her what he pieced together about Harriet
Crowe after talking with her friends and neighbors. "She was
seen leaving a gay bar an hour before she was murdered. Maura
McKinney was also identified as being there at the same time.
The bartender said that Maura left the bar right after the woman
173

did. The body was discovered two hours ago tied to a grapevine
like the others. There was something different about this one,
though."
"Like what?'' Rena asked uneasily. She could hear the bleak-
ness in his voice.
He talked quietly. "Semen was found in the victim's vagina.
She apparently had sex with a male close to the time she was
murdered."
"That's strange," Rena uttered, surprised.
"I agree. Nobody who knew Harriet Crowe had ever seen her
with a man before,'' Grant stated.
"With the little you told me about her I would say that it
couldn't be a possibility. She sounded like a conservative lesbian
who rarely came out of the closet to confront her own sexuality
with women let alone have a fling with a man."
"The semen was sent to our Washington lab. Perhaps Maura
now has a male accomplice."
"Or perhaps this is a copycat murder."
"It doesn't look that way. Blond hair fibers were found in
Harriet's bedroom. It isn't confirmed yet, but I'm sure they'll
match the others."
Rena shook her head, confused. "This doesn't make any
sense. Unless of course you're right and she now has an accom-
plice."
"Do you think she may have a split personality?"
"She's sure showing traces of it. It's very rare, though, for
someone who suffers from a dual personality disorder to commit
murder without knowing about it. Jekyll and Hydes don't usually
exist outside of literature," she said.
"One other thing," Grant said, his voice becoming excited.
"The police found the car she was driving. Her fingerprints were
all over it. The spike and scalpel that were used in the murders
were in the back, along with what we believe to be ajar contain-
ing the ovaries and testes of the victims. While they were search-
ing the car, it turns out that she was just a couple of hundred feet
away, across the street in a diner. The hammer, coated with
blood, was found in a wastebasket in the bathroom there."
"Do you have any idea where she is now?" Rena asked
tensely.
"Somewhere in Boise, and Boise is a small city. There's no
way out."
"What was her physical condition like?"
174

"Not terrific. Witnesses say she looked sleazy, unclean, wore
too much makeup. That doesn't seem to be die sophisticated
woman you know."
"No, it's not. It sounds like there's a great deal of mental
deterioration going on."
After a pause, he said, "We believe there's a chance she may
try and contact you."
"You're not the first one to mention that to me today. I'll let
you know if she does.'' Rena had a feeling that Grant had already
put a tap on her phone in case Maura called. She quickly told
Grant what she had learned about Gustave de Montret from Char-
lie and who Wilbur Striker was.
Will they find Maura? Rena wondered as she hung up. Maura
was street smart and clever; her success as a prosecuting attorney
attested to that. If Maura was suffering from severe paranoia,
then she was quite capable of eluding the police; paranoids can
be more inventive than the ordinary person.
She went over to her desk, picked up de Montret's journal,
and flipped through the pages. Why was Maura reenacting the
horrendous deeds of this madman? What was the link that bound
them together after two centuries?
Rena skimmed through the diary one more time. When she
finished, she came to the same conclusion: there was a strong
sense of sacrificial ritualism in the murders. Perhaps that's where
she should start looking. But how do I begin ?
The way the bodies were placed: draped across the vines like
crucifixions. Christianity, even in its early stages, didn't condone
human sacrifices. No, that part was pagan. Polytheism, however,
didn't simply stop when Christianity evolved. They actually be-
gan to overlap one another, taking on the other's attributes.
The killings that happened two hundred years ago and now
seemed to revolve around the making of wine. Rena knew the
strong connotation wine had in religious rites, some of them
going as far back as the dawn of human history. Maybe the per-
son she really needed to speak to was an enologist.
She left the cMteau and walked over to the winery. Perhaps
Harrison Monroe was somewhere inside and not out in the fields.
The foreman in the purification area, where the wine was fine-
filtered before bottling, told her that Harrison was in the labo-
ratory checking the density of the sugar and alcohol content of
this year's cabernet.
She crossed the packing plant past the barrel room. The lab
175

was in the corner of the winery, away from the hub of activity.
She opened the door and found Harrison holding a glass hydrom-
eter up to the light and talking to a chemist in a white frock. He
had a pleased look on his face. When he saw Rena, his eyes
brightened.
"Well, hello. I think your father may get that gold medal yet
in about four years," he said, flicking his finger at the red liquid
in the glass tube.
"Am I disturbing you?" she asked.
'' You? Never.'' He grinned at her, exposing those white teeth.
"I need a good historian who knows enology."
Harrison shook his head and smiled. "I'm afraid I'm not your
man. Viticulture is my forte. Wine history was my worst subject
at UC Davis."
"Do you know of anyone who's knowledgeable in that?" she
asked, folding her arms to her chest.
"Yep," he groaned, leaning against the lab table. "Dr. Sey-
mour Tomain . . . pronounced the same as in Ptomaine poison-
ing. He's an enology professor at UC Davis. He's also one of the
most formidable wine critics in the country. Many a fine vintner
has bitten the dust from a stroke of his word processor.''
"How did you make out?"
"I passed. The old fart loves my wine. Of course, you're only
as good as your last vintage with that guy. Do you want me to
call him for you?"
"Would you?"
He took out his address book from his pocket, went over to
the wall phone, and began dialing. "To think I'm about to hear
this man's voice again. I don't know if I can stand it," he mum-
bled. "Now you definitely owe me dinner," he said, turning to
her.
"You're on," she said.
Three minutes later he hung up the phone and smiled. ' 'We've
just been invited for lunch with the honorable Dr. Tomain."
"We?"
"Yes . . .we. After lunch, if we're lucky, we'll be back just
in time for dinner. Any particular restaurant you like in town?"
Rena smiled at the man's charm. "As you say, I owe you, so
you pick it."
They took the Range Rover and drove east on Highway 128 to
the campus of UC Davis. The drive through the fall-colored hills
was exhilarating, and Harrison's conversation was uplifting and
176

witty, but Rena was only half listening to him; her mind kept
wondering about the semen found in the dead body of Harriet
Crowe.
Chapter Nineteen
^jv ice of you to come back to your roots, Harrison," Pro-
I lfessor Tomain said with a Bostonian accent as he
squinted at him from behind thick, wiry eyebrows. He was sitting
in an overstuffed armchair that was covered with doilies in his
oak-paneled living room and sipping a glass of Lillet. A wrin-
kled, blue summer suit hung loosely over his portly frame and a
paisley bow tie was tightly hooked around his thick neck.
"It's always wonderful to see you again, Professor," Harrison
said, unable to hide the sarcasm behind his smile. He sat on the
couch next to Rena across from Tomain; they were holding glasses
of cold Calistoga water with lemon wedges.
"Please excuse the derision in Mr. Monroe's voice," Tomain
said to Rena. "My young friend may be able to bring the world
to its knees with his brilliant pinot noirs, but he was the worst
student of enological history that I ever had the displeasure of
teaching. I flunked this boy twenty years ago, and he's never
forgiven me. Isn't that right, Harrison?"
"Not true at all. I forgive you every time you give my wines
a favorable review, Seymour. It is all right to call you Seymour
after twenty years, I hope?"
"Absolutely! At least until I sample your next vintage. If it's
dreadful you can always fall back on your first love, mineralogy,
and destroy the Earth even further by burrowing more tunnels
into it. Tell me Harrison, after your prior colleagues have stripped
our planet of all its resources, what will they fall back on? Per-
haps they'll all become great vintners like you. I wonder if I
should teach my students mole digging as a prerequisite for learn-
ing wine making."
177

Harrison groaned, shuffled his frame uneasily on the couch,
and grimaced at Rena, It was obvious that this was not the first
time that Tomain had blown verbal sparks in his path.
Smiling, Tomain then swiveled his heavy body in Rena's di-
rection. "Now my dear, your name is . . . ?"
"Rena Halbrook. I'm a psychologist."
"Yes. Harrison says you wish to talk to me about these vine-
yard murders."
"Yes," she said, leaning forward. "I may be off base in trying
to understand the reasoning behind them—especially when we're
dealing with a serial killer—but there seems to be something
ceremonial about these murders, something that has to do with
the vineyards themselves. Do you know of any ancient sacrificial
rites that were similar in nature?"
Tomain had a pleased look on his face. Excited, he said, "Ab-
solutely! In fact, I phoned the FBI in San Francisco to offer them
my expertise, but they didn't seem very interested." Then he
frowned and looked at Harrison. "Ancient history is the floor
plan of our existence, yet they had absolutely no interest in it—
similar to you as I recall, my dear fellow."
Harrison moaned and leaned his arm around the back of the
goose-down couch. He whispered in Rena's ear, "You now owe
me more than dinner."
"Well, I may not be the FBI but I would like to hear about
what you have to say," Rena said, ignoring Harrison's sarcasm.
"The key lies in the ancient Greek feast of Oschophoria,"
Tomain said, beaming.
"What's that?" Rena asked.
"It took place on the eighth day of Pyanepsion."
"Oh, speak English, Seymour," Harrison said impatiently.
"Of course, forgive me. We don't know how far back in an-
cient times this feast actually began. We do know that the cere-
mony occurred at the end of October, after the harvesting of the
wine grapes. There were many feasts geared around the god,
Dionysus, but the Oschophoria is the one that came to my mind
when I read about the murders."
"I'm sorry, it's been many years since I studied ancient
Greece. Which god was Dionysus?" Rena inquired.
"The primordial god of fertility ... the god who first made
wine. The festivities in his honor were quite interesting . . . very
orgiastic. They included the tearing apart of a live animal, then
devouring its flesh, and drinking its blood. There's evidence that
178

the ceremony goes back to the early days of Greece, hundreds of
years before Socrates and the great Athenian dramatists. It began
with a procession from the Athenian temple of Dionysus to Phal-
era many miles away. Two small boys dressed in girl?' clothing
led this caravan."
"Why this form of transvestism?" Rena asked.
"There were many Bacchic ceremonies during that period
where men wore women's clothing. No one knows why exacdy.
We can only speculate. Personally, I think it was a symbolic
gesture for the unisexual regeneration of the Earth. These two
transvestite boys in the feast of Oschophoria would carry in their
hands a phallic vine stock covered with fruit. This is the inter-
esting part: the Greek word for vine stock is oschophories. The
word for scrotum, like the feast itself, is oschophoria. To the
Greeks, it probably meant the same thing."
Rena's body began to tingle.
"Why name a feast after the word scrotum?" he asked, as if
reading Rena's mind.
"Do you have a theory?"
' 'Yes, but that's all it is—just a theory. It can never be proven.
It is well documented that fruits, some of them encased in cakes
resembling phallic symbols, were taken to Athene Skiros at Phal-
era during the feast of Oschophoria. But what is meant by fruit?—
apples? . . . oranges? . . . grapes? I don't think so. As I said,
these ceremonies were very orgiastic in temperament. There were
sacrifices—most likely human. The fruits, I believe, were also
human in origin."
Rena shuddered. "Such as ovaries and testes?"
Professor Tomain nodded. "Human life derives from the scro-
tum of man, or to the Greeks—the oschophoria. Unisexual Earth
also produces life, most importandy the vineyards. In ancient
days, I believe human fruit was fed to these vineyards to stimulate
the fertility of the soil.
Rena suddenly remembered the story Maura told her in Ath-
ens so many years ago. How the queen would kill her lovers and
pour their blood over the crops. Wasn't the feast of Oschophoria
just another version of this?
Tomain continued talking. "A more symbolic, modern form
of this ritual is still going on today. Farmers in many parts of the
world go into the fields with their wives and fornicate hoping to
produce a good harvest."
179

"And how are the murders being committed in the vineyards
today related to this ancient feast?" she asked.
"It's a bastardized form of the original Oschophoria, distorted
over the centuries. A few rare instances of this primordial ritual
popped up from time to time in enological history. As far as I
know it's been at least two centuries since the last sacrifices were
performed in vineyards.
"I see," she said, nodding. "Do you remember the name of
the winery that last practiced the Oschophoria?"
"No, but I could look it up," he said. "It happened in Bor-
deaux."
"Is the name Baron Gustave de Montret familiar to you?"
' 'My God! That's the wine maker who I'm talking about! They
say he may have killed hundreds of people! How did you know
about him?" Tomain looked at her with an astonished expres-
sion.
"Actually, the death toll was set at seventy-three. That was
the last time this rite was practiced as far as you know?"
"Yes, I'm quite sure of it. You're an amazing young lady. I
didn't think anyone except a few historians like myself knew what
the baron did."
No, I'm not amazing at all, Rena thought to herself. The FBI
had purposely kept the discovery of the journal out of the media
or everyone would have known about the baron. Tomain's theory,
she felt, was making sense: rituals usually change their forms
over the years to coincide with the present society. "Do you see
any Christian influence in these murders?"
"Of course! Why couldn't I have had you as a student instead
of Harrison! The celebration of the Oschophoria was probably
kept alive through the ages by small cults. When Christianity
came into being, changes were made in its rituals to incorporate
certain aspects of this new religion."
"Like placing the sacrificial bodies over the vines to give the
appearance of crucifixions?" she asked.
' 'Yes, including the use of the spike: nails were driven through
Christ's hands and feet, and eventually He died. Here, the nail
is used in back of the head to kill the victim."
Professor Tomain's housekeeper came into the den and an-
nounced that lunch was ready.
"Thank God," Harrison muttered to Rena. As they got up to
go into the dining room, he whispered in her ear, "He's as boring
as he was twenty years ago."
180

Rena smiled at Harrison's remark, but she didn't think Pro-
fessor Tomain was boring at all. If anything, he had cleared up
much of the fog covering de Montret. She at least understood
why the baron had murdered all those people; he did it to fertilize
his vineyards. His madness went back to the beginnings of his-
tory. That still didn't answer why Maura was following in the
shadow of her ancestor; her friend had no deep love for vine-
yards. Her motives, equally as psychotic as de Montret's, had to
have been for another reason.
After a lunch of warm duck salad and a bottle of Pommard
Rugiens, they adjourned to Tomato's study for coffee. The walls
and shelves were filled with pictures and artifacts of ancient
Greece.
Rena was just about to pour coffee into her cup from the silver
urn on the table when she noticed a small statue on the mantel
of the fireplace. It was a man with four rows of breasts. She put
the pot down and walked over to it. There was something about
it that seemed familiar.
"Zeus,'' the professor said. "It's a replica of a bronze statuette
that was dug up at Labranda in Caria."
"Yes, I know," Rena said, suddenly remembering where she
saw it. "The original is in the Archaeological Museum in Ath-
ens."
"My, God, but I like this woman, Harrison," Tomato said,
getting up and going over to her. "The breasts on Zeus are a
symbol of fertility." He carefully reached up and took down an
old vase next to die statue. "Look at this."
Rena took her glasses from her purse, put them on, and peered
down at the artifact that Tomato had placed on his desk. There
was a drawing on the vase depicting a bearded male figure dressed
in women's clothes and mounting a female wearing a false beard.
"This shows a ceremony conducted from one of the feasts of
Dionysus. The totersexual disguise of the figures represents the
Earth's asexuality—it wasn't man nor woman."
Rena was to deep thought on the drive back to the Alexander
Valley. Professor Tomain had cleared up many things, but the
reasoning behind Maura committing the murders was still
murky.
What the old Greek woman had said to Maura on the island
of Paros suddenly cropped up in her mind: "You are the child of
Hermes!" The image of the old woman's face, with the moon-
181

light reflecting off her cataracts, was as clear in her head as the
afternoon sunlight. What had she meant by those words? Maura
never gave her an answer. She wished she had remembered to
ask Tomain about that.
"You are the child of Hermes!"
What kind of child did Hermes sire? she wondered.
Then Harrison began to talk about new techniques in wine
making. Rena broke from her thoughts and turned to listen. The
words of the woman began to disappear from her mind and fil-
tered down into the deep recesses of her memory.
Chapter Twenty
_S
he took the bottle of brown tint off the supermarket shelf
and put it in the cart alongside the tube of Neosporin, rubber
gloves, a bottle of extra-strength Excedrin, a pair of scissors,
toothpaste, toothbrush, makeup, a box of Johnson & Johnson
gauze, hairbrush, tape, bandages, peanut butter, bread, pears,
oranges, a quart of milk, and a container of plastic knives.
The pain between her legs was excruciating; hot sparks shot
through her groin every time she moved. Walking slowly down
the aisle so her limp wouldn't be too noticeable, she stopped
when she came to the row filled with hygienic merchandise. She
reached up and grabbed a cannister of liquid soap, shampoo, and
a package of sponges. In the sundries section, she took a pair of
large-framed, dark-tinted sunglasses off the swivel rack, ripped
off the label, and put them on. Now at least no one would be
able to see her eyes.
Her legs felt weak from hunger, and her heart was pounding
from the series of panic attacks that had come over her since this
morning. These attacks, when not treated with medication, were
horrible: bodies of the shoppers in the supermarket were distort-
ing and constantly changing shapes; boxes on the shelves had the
bright colors of a Disney cartoon; faces took on an evil glow;
182

paranoid eyes, peering at her like mice, were set deeply into
purple sockets. It's not real, it's just my perception, her inner
self kept saying. She would give anything right now for her pre-
scriptions of Xanax and Parnate. Taking those drugs daily was
the only thing that kept her from going over the edge. Right now
there was none, and she had better cope with that fact or go stark
mad. At,least the severe headaches had not come back. Trying
to fight off the panic, she gripped the shopping cart handle until
her knuckles turned white and seemed as if they were going to
break through her skin. She made her way to the checkout stand.
The girl behind the counter, in Maura's nightmare perception,
had hair as red as a Raggedy Ann doll; her gums were black and
her snow-white skin was pitted with hairy moles. Maura squeezed
her eyes shut trying to erase the image. It's not real, it's just a
panic attack! She opened her eyes. The girl's skin had turned
scarlet and the moles now took the shape of volcanoes erupting
with puss.
As she reached inside her purse for money, she prayed the
clerk was too busy putting her purchases into the brown paper
bag to notice how badly her hands were shaking.
Once outside, she crossed the street and painfully limped her
way to the small Gulf station on the corner. The burning sensa-
tion in her groin was so intense now that she had to stop and
clutch onto the lamppost in order to avoid passing out. There
was a hint of frost in the air, but her face was coated with a haze
of sweat. The entrance to the bathroom located at the side of the
station was only a few steps away. Slowly she dragged her leg
forward, inching herself to the door. What had happened to cause
this pain ? Before she went inside, she quickly looked around to
see if anyone was watching her. She was in luck; there were no
cars fueling up at the pumps, and the attendant was inside the
garage taking apart the carburetor of a pickup truck.
She went into the bathroom. Stooping down, she wedged the
corner of her purse between the door and the jamb, preventing
anyone from coming in.
So hungry! she thought, turning the bag over on the dirty tile
floor. She couldn't remember the last time she had eaten solid
food. Her hands were trembling so badly that she could hardly
open up the jar of peanut butter. She tore off the wrapping on the
bread, quickly gulped down a slice, then made a sandwich using
the plastic knife. The protein raced through her body, giving her
some needed strength.
183

After eating a second sandwich and drinking down half the
quart of milk, she ripped apart the skin from two oranges and
ate them. When she was finished, she went over to the sink, lifted
up her skirt, and looked at the wound around her genitals. Some-
how she must have cut herself there. The redness around the area
was tender and appeared to be spreading. Is this color real or is
it also in my mind? No, it was real all right. It was warm to the
touch, and she knew that meant it was infected. She washed the
wound with soap, covered it with the Neosporin antibiotic, then
taped a three-inch-square piece of gauze over it. Maura hoped
she had caught the infection in time.
She took off her clothes, soaped one of the sponges, and bathed
her entire body. It was good to be clean, but the bathroom was
cold and she began to shiver. Her head felt hot, and she downed
three Excedrins; she couldn't afford to get sick . . . not now\
She looked at her gaunt face in the broken mirror over the
basin and knew what she had to do next. Removing the kerchief,
she undid her hair, letting the long blond strands fall down her
back. Her face was changing shapes in the mirror and her heart
was racing as if she were on the downward track of a roller
coaster. She grabbed the edge of the sink, clamped her eyes
closed, and waited until the feeling eased up. When it did, she
picked up the scissor off the floor, grabbed hold of her hair, and
began cutting. She chopped away from the neck down. There
was no time to think about style.
When it was done, she put on the rubber gloves and applied
the brown tint. Her hair was so light that she had to go over it
twice before it would darken.
Then came the makeup, a beige base to cover up her pale skin.
She opened the tote and took out a black wool skirt, a check-
ered, long-sleeved blouse, and a white cardigan sweater. After
she dressed, she pushed back the sides of her hair with barrettes
and put on the sunglasses.
' Looking at herself in the mirror, she saw the image of a
tall, drab woman. I could be the wife of a farmer or a steelworker,
she thought.
Scooping up as much of the hair as she could from the floor,
she tossed it in the toilet, flushing it several times so that it
wouldn't back up. She then took out her credit cards and the
receipts from her purse, ripped them up it into small pieces, and
also flung them into the bowl. There will be no proof of who I
am in case I'm stopped.
184

She left the bathroom and walked over to the phone booth near
the gas pumps. The pain in her groin was like blinding lights
shooting through her legs.
Again she called Uncle Wiggly. There was no answer. Oh
Jesus! No! Please don't do this to me. I need you!
Maura called information in Los Angeles for Rena's number.
The operator told her that it was a private listing. "Hell!" she
screamed, slamming down the receiver. The gas attendant poked
his head out from under the hood of the pickup truck in the
garage and looked quizzically at her.
Don't make a scene! she said to herself. She was feeling light-
headed, and the metal scraping was beginning to echo through
her skull again. Clenching her fists and resting her head against
the black phone casing, she began to realize there was no way
she could make it without medicine. The attacks were deepening
now, and soon she would get crazy like she did after Martin died.
Except now the spells were worse, and Uncle Wiggly said she
was killing people.
Then she looked up and saw it. On the other side of the street
next to the fruit stand was a sign that read "Pharmacy." Do I
take that chance? She didn't have any choice, not anymore.
She limped across the street and looked inside the window of
the drugstore. It was small and dimly lit, with the sundries up
front and the pharmacy in the back. There didn't seem to be any
customers in the store.
Maura went inside and walked over to the back. A small man
in his mid-sixties, bald, with a wire-thin mustache and wearing
a white pharmacist's frock looked up from behind the counter.
He was counting out yellow-colored pills and putting them into
a vial. "Can I help you?" he asked, wearing a smile that made
his mustache stretch across his face.
Maura knew how slim her chances were, but she had no
choice. "I need three prescriptions filled. The problem is I left
them at home in New York." Her voice was weak and hoarse
and she wondered if she had used her vocal chords in the last
several days.
The pharmacist looked at her suspiciously. There was a sickly
yellow cast to her face that could be seen under the makeup, and
she was sweating profusely. "What kind of prescriptions?"
Maura took a deep breath to fight off the panic. The old man's
face was changing colors, and his mustache looked like a centi-
pede slowly squirming its way across his mouth. "Parnate,
185

Xanax, and Darvocet." She forced a laugh. "I'm so dumb. I
can't believe I left them behind."
"You know I can't release those kinds of drugs without an
authorization." His eyes warily scanned her face.
Maura cleared her throat to get the rust out of it. "Then can
you call my doctor?"
The man picked up the phone. "New York you said? That's
long distance."
"Yes, I know. I'll pay for the call," she replied. "I'm afraid
I don't have his number with me."
He grunted and his eyes locked on hers as he dialed infor-
mation. "What's your doctor's name?"
This is insane! There was no doctor in New York. Her hands
balled up into fists. She needed that medicine and she wasn't
going to let this little man stop her. The craziness was coming
over her again, real strong this time, and she wanted to scream,
tear up the place like she did to her house the night Martin died.
Maybe it was too late for the medicine to calm her down, but she
needed to find out. There was no way anyone was going to put
her away in a hospital again like they did when she was seven-
teen. Never again! Suddenly Maura realized there was an alter-
native to that happening. Yes, she needed the medications, but
there was something else she also needed.
"I asked you the name of your doctor," he said distrustfully.
Maura slowly walked around the counter and stood towering
over the small pharmacist. He looked up into her face and what
he saw made him lower the phone. His eyes filled with terror.
She grabbed a pair of sharp cuticle scissors off the rack on the
counter. Maura knew the strength she possessed and what
she could do with it when provoked. Reaching out and taking
the little pharmacist by the collar with one hand, she dug the
steel point of the scissors into his Adam's apple with the other.
The skin easily ripped apart. Blood spurted out and flowed like
a river down his neck.

Chapter Twenty-one
_H
arrison wanted to stop at a friend's winery on the way
back from Doctor Tomain's house, but Rena begged off,
saying she had too many things to do. Instead, they agreed to
meet for dinner at Mustards Grill at eight-thirty tonight. He
dropped Rena off at the chateau and told her he'd see her then.
When she went inside the house, there was a message on the
answering machine to call agent Marvin Grant as soon as pos-
sible. He had phoned only a few minutes ago. Had they found
Maura this time?
Rena went into the den and dialed the number. It was the FBI
office in Boise, Idaho. After Rena identified herself to an FBI
operative, Grant got on the phone. "She's one hell of a smart
lady," he said flippantly.
"Maura?"
"Yes. She robbed a pharmacy less than two hours ago."
"Did she hurt anyone?" There was dread in her voice.
"Yeah, the owner. Except he's more shook up than hurt. She
cut his throat with a cuticle cutter—just a flesh wound. Luckily
the blade on the scissor was only an inch long. She took him into
a storeroom in the back and tied him up. After the pharmacist
freed himself, he called the police. The robbery report was sent
to our office because the sheriff's department in Boise knew we
were looking for a woman around the same age as the suspect.
Seems our lady of the vineyards totally changed her appearance.
We would never have considered this woman to be Maura from
the pharmacist's description. What tipped us off was the kind of
drugs she stole. Vials filled with Parnate, Xanax, erythromycin
tablets, and another one with Darvocet. There were also sleeping
pills called Placidyls scattered over the floor. He thinks she may
have grabbed some of those, too. The pharmacist said she was
187

incredibly strong. She actually picked him up off the ground and
carried him into the back. A little unusual for a woman."
"I've seen frail, undernourished, paranoid schizophrenics in
mental wards toss two-hundred-pound security guards around
like they were helium balloons. She must have needed those
medications desperately to take a chance like that." Rena won-
dered if Maura literally carried the Mexican, Tomas Sanchez,
from the hidden spring to the vineyards. That would explain why
the trail of blood abruptly stopped.
"He said she was acting strange. Holding her head and mum-
bling something about metal scraping sounds coming from inside
her."
This bothered Rena. She then said somberly, "Schizophrenics
often hear voices and sounds in their heads. It has to do with a
chemical imbalance." Strange, she thought. If Maura was
schizophrenic, then why take those kinds of drugs? They were
used more for the control of depression and panic disorders.
There also were no records showing any prescriptions for these
drugs written out in her name. Where was she getting them from
and who was telling her to take them? "Did she steal anything
else?" she asked Grant.
"Yes. She also took a couple of hundred dollars from the cash
register and the pharmacist's car that was parked in the back—a
blue Chevy Impala. She has a two-hour jump. All roads leading
out of Boise are blocked, and the highway patrol have been au-
thorized to pull over all cars that even come close to resembling
Impalas. It shouldn't be long before we have her."
"So you've said before," she said with some skepticism. After
she hung up on Grant, she called Cathy and told her she would
be coming back to L.A. in a couple of days and that she missed
her.
While walking upstairs to change for her dinner date with
Harrison, she began to be bothered about the Placidyls that the
pharmacist also believed were taken. Those were heavy sleeping
pills. The thought of suicide entered her mind. She hoped Maura
wasn't contemplating that. And why erythromycin? Was she ill?
They're underestimating her, Rena thought to herself as she
got undressed to take a quick shower. She's a hell of a lot sharper
than they 're giving her credit for. Rena thought back to a breezy
Monday morning in the Napa Valley when they were sixteen
years old.
* * *
188

Peter McKinney phoned Rena at the cMteau asking if she
would stay with Maura while he went down to the Orange County
State Fair where his cabernet was in contention for a gold medal.
He said that Maura was supposed to go with him, but she had
suddenly come down with the flu. Rena quickly agreed, and
Peter came to the house to pick her up.
"She looks terrible," he said with apprehension in his voice
as Rena got into his car. "She's burning up and she can't keep
anything down. I hate to leave her like this, but she's insisting
that I go. She won't let Semra near her. I wanted to call Dr.
Frawley, but the fool girl nearly bit my head off when I mentioned
it. She said she'd be fine without him and that you'd watch over
her. If her fever gets any higher, don't pay her any mind. You
call him at once, is that clear?" His voice was hard and threat-
ening.
"Yes," she said anxiously.
When McKinney pulled up to the house, Rena rushed upstairs
to her friend's bedroom. She found Maura lying under the covers,
her long, golden hair spread out over most of the pillow. Rena
was jolted by the way she looked: her face was a ghostly white
and crusted vomit clung to her lips. The sockets around her eyes
were dark, turning her face into a deathlike mask. She was shiv-
ering, and beads of sweat were draped over her mouth and fore-
head.
Rena sat down on the bed beside her and reached for her hand.
It felt rubbery and clammy. "Maura, maybe you should see a
doctor," Rena said, concerned.
"No," she uttered defiantly in a hoarse voice. "No doctor.
I'll be fine." She looked up and saw Peter standing over her.
"Go to the fair, Dad. It's just a bug. Don't worry." She managed
a weak smile.
He shook his head and sighed at his daughter's stubbornness.
"You call Frawley if the fever goes up," he said to Rena, point-
ing his finger at her.
She quickly nodded.
He said firmly to Maura, "If you can't go to the bathroom by
yourself, you get Semra to help you. Is that understood?"
"You know I will," she murmured.
He turned to leave. When he reached the door, he looked back
again and said, "You're an obstinate girl, Maura. I don't like
leaving you like this."
"Please, Dad," she moaned.
189

He shook his head one last time then went downstairs.
Semra walked into the room and glared at Rena.
' 'What is it you want?'' Maura said harshly to her. "Get out!''
Semra's fuzzy upper lip curled in hate; then she moved her
short, squat body out of the room.
Maura squeezed Rena's hand. "Stand by the window and see
if he's really leaving. Sometimes he likes to fake me out."
"Your father?"
"Yes."
Bewildered, Rena looked down at her.
"Do it for God's sake!" Maura whispered impatiently.
Rena went over to the window and looked out. Through the
lace curtains she could see McKinney getting into his car. He
started the engine and drove away. Ihrning to Maura, she said,
"He's gone."
"Good!" Maura groaned loudly. She pushed the covers off
her body and weakly sat up. "Ito afraid I'm going to be sick
again." She held her stomach and slowly started to make her
way over to the bathroom. "Jesus, is this painful!"
"Do you have to throw up?" Rena asked anxiously.
"No, this time I have the shits. It's been coming out of me
from both ends." She leaned against the wall for a second until
the dizziness passed then went into the bathroom.
"Let me help you," Rena said, going over to her.
"No," Maura quickly snapped. "I'll be fine." Closing the
door to the bathroom, she said to Rena, "Go down to the fridge
and get me the full half gallon of milk."
"Why?"
"Do it, please!" she groaned demandingly through the other
side of the door.
Totally confused, Rena went downstairs. When Semra saw her
coming into the kitchen, she scowled and went into her bedroom,
slamming the door. Rena found the container of milk and brought
it back up again.
A few minutes later Maura emerged from the bathroom. She
made her way over to the bed, then sat down on the floor, and
leaned her back against the nightstand. Shivering profusely, she
huddled her knees close to her chin and grabbed the carton from
Rena. She clawed at the top, tearing it open, then ravenously
drank from it. The milk slid down her chin and nightgown, form-
ing small puddles on the carpet. Rena stared at her in wonder-
ment. When Maura had finished half the carton, she looked up
190

at Rena and burped. Then she started laughing. Holding her
mouth, she said in between giggles, "Damn! What I don't do
for love!"
' 'What the hell is going on, Maura?" Rena demanded.' 'Aren't
you sick?"
"Sicker than I've ever been in my whole goddamn life!" She
reached into the drawer of the nightstand and took out several
packs of Turns. After ripping one of them apart, she popped
several tablets into her mouth. "Calcium," she said. "I need
calcium." She held the carton up to Rena as if she were toasting
her then took several more gulps of milk to wash the tablets
down.
"What do you need calcium for? The flu?"
"No dummy, as an antidote for oxalic-acid poisoning. Be a
pal and look under the bed," she said, pointing to the area with
her finger.
Rena bent down and looked under the bed. She pulled out
several clusters of reddish-looking stalks that resembled celery.
"What's this?"
Holding her stomach in pain, Maura smiled and said, "Rhu-
barb. Your common, everyday, goddamn garden-variety rhu-
barb." Again she started to laugh. "Except you can't eat the
leaves. They're poisonous. If you do you get sick, just like I did.
I have to throw them away before my father finds them."
"You poisoned yourself?" Rena held her hand to her mouth
in astonishment.
"Yep." She took a few more gulps of milk. Some color was
returning to her face, and she didn't seem to be shivering as
much. "Don't worry. I'll be fine in a while. I just have to get a
lot of calcium into me right now. That's why I'm drinking milk
and eating these God awful-tasting Turns. I should have gotten
the mint-flavored ones."
"How could you do this? Everybody thought you were deathly
sick with the flu!" Rena said furiously.
"As I said, what I don't do for love." She slowly got up and
walked over to the window and looked out. Across the road she
could see Martin standing next to the wooden doors of the winery
waiting for her. Her pupils lit up with fire. Not taking her eyes
off him, she said to Rena, "He's expecting me. I planned this
for weeks so I wouldn't have to go to that damn fair. My father
would kill Martin if he knew I was still seeing him." Maura
went over to the closet and removed a sleeveless pink dress. She
191

turned to Rena. "I have to take a shower first to get this sickening
smell off of me."
'' You 're crazy!'' Rena screamed, as Maura, holding the dress,
dragged her feeble body into the bathroom. "What's the name
of that poison called again?''
"Oxalic acid?"
"Can it be fatal?"
"Sure," Maura said, leaning against the bathroom door.
Rena was horrified. "How much of it do you have to eat before
you die?"
Smiling, Maura shrugged, "Hell if I know."
Rena watched in disbelief as Maura calmly turned on the
shower then quietly closed the door.
When she exited the bathroom, her hair was already brushed
to a silky sheen and she had on a light makeup base that covered
the red blotches on her pale skin. The pink dress she was now
wearing only accentuated her beauty. She smiled at herself in the
mirror, then turned to Rena, and hugged and kissed her. "You're
a friend. I love you," she quickly said, then rushed out of the
room to meet Martin.
Looking out the window, Rena was amazed as she watched
Maura run out of the house toward Martin's open arms. She
watched as they kissed passionately and held each other tightly.
Only ten minutes ago Maura looked like she was dying, now she
seemed more alive than Rena had ever seen her look before. Can
love be that powerful? she wondered as she stared at them walk-
ing hand-in-hand into the winery.
Rena spent the rest of the afternoon alone in Maura's bedroom
reading a book. They were making love in the winery, Rena
assumed. She was furious at being used like this. Maura didn't
have to trick her into coming over. They were best friends and
she would have come anyway. Then she remembered the look
on Maura's face when she first saw Martin outside her window
and her anger subsided. Rena sighed. Yes, Maura did love him
with all her soul. Her father had no right to keep them apart. To
poison oneself for love! My God! How many people are there in
this world who can feel that deeply?
That happened almost a year to the day before Martin was
murdered, Rena thought as she applied the last finishing touches
to her makeup. One hell of a smart lady, Agent Grant? You don't
know how smart!
192

Chapter Twenty-two
_T
he Trailways bus pulled into the Idaho Falls depot at seven-
fifteen on a wet, cold Sunday evening. A handful of passen-
gers got off. Maura was among them.
The winds were blowing hard and sheets of rain were coming
down on a slant. Wrapping the cardigan around her body for
protection, Maura slowly made her way into the station. It was
almost deserted inside except for an old woman with vacant eyes
who sat at the end of the long brown wooden bench; she had a
shopping bag between her legs. At the other end of the bench, a
young marine, fresh out of boot camp, was sleeping with his
shaved head propped up against his duffel bag.
Spotting a phone booth near the newsstand, Maura went over
to it and dialed Uncle Wiggly's number once again. She let it
ring for several minutes before she hung up. Where is he? What
am I supposed to do!
She was feverish and her body was shaking from the chills.
Maura limped into the bathroom to once again examine the
wound near her groin. She removed the dressing, which was
soaked in green puss. The cut was now badly infected: it was
painfully swollen and felt like hot coals to the touch. Obviously
the toxin was too far spread in her body for the erythromycin
tablets to work. If only she wasn't allergic to penicillin! she
thought. There was nothing more she could do now except use
aspirins to help keep the fever down. All she could do was just
hope that the natural antibodies in her system would kill off the
infection by itself. It would be taking too big a chance if she tried
to see a doctor in this city. At least she had the Parnate and Xanax
to control the attacks. The headaches had been starting up again
and the Darvocet helped that. Her biggest fear right now was not
knowing what would happen if she blacked out again, or even
fell asleep!
193

Maura quickly undressed, grabbed a striped dress from the
tote bag, and put it on. She knew the police would be looking
for a woman wearing a black wool skirt and a white sweater as
the one who robbed the pharmacy. She then left the bathroom
and went over to the ticket booth and picked up a bus schedule. -
The smart thing she did was to leave the blue Chevy Impala
in Boise. If the police suspected the vineyard murderer and the
person who robbed the pharmacy were one and the same, she
knew they'd set up roadblocks looking for the car. Taking a bus
to someplace as unsuspecting as Idaho Falls gave her a better
head start. She hid the car in an unlit area of an underground
parking lot several blocks from the Boise bus station. It could be
days before it was found.
Her suspicions turned out to be right. As the bus made its way
east to Idaho Falls, she looked out the window and saw an un-
usual amount of highway patrol on Route 20. They seemed to be
indiscriminately pulling cars over to the side of the road, espe-
cially large blue ones.
Then what's the next move?
She couldn't go back to the Napa Valley. They'd be waiting
for her there. As much as she needed to see Uncle Wiggly, it
would have to wait.
What about New York? No, she had no friends there.
On the front page of the schedule booklet was a map of the
United States with all the routes the bus company took. An idea
began to form in her mind. She would take three buses. The first
one to Salt Lake City, the next one to Las Vegas, then the last
one to Los Angeles.
She would get to Rena. It was her only hope.
Looking at the departure listings, she saw the journey would
take at least a day and a half. That meant she would have to
spend a lot of time hanging around in bus terminals. No. Too
dangerous! Find a movie theater ... a diner. Anything but bus
terminals. That's where they'll be looking. The trip could be
made in much less time than that, but she couldn't afford to be
on one bus for any great length of time.
Maura went over to the ticket booth and bought her first fare
to Salt Lake City. It wasn't scheduled to leave for another three
hours. Where was she to go in the meantime? She couldn't stay
here. Then she saw her reflection in the mirror on the green-
painted wall. Her hair was now a mouse-colored brown. It was
194

early, and drugstores were still open. Yes, it was time to change
her appearance again. This time she would have black hair.
How easy this is, she thought as she walked out of the termi-
nal. Years as a deputy district attorney taught her that most per-
petrators were caught by the police and convicted because there
was no real thought behind their criminal act. Her theory had
always been that with a little ingenuity most lawbreakers would
never be caught. How ironic that she was the one who would test
this principle.
Chapter Twenty-three
_R
ena walked into the bright, noisy atmosphere of Mustards
Grill. She had been especially conscious about the way she
dressed tonight. Her blue silk pants and jacket worked well with
her slender body; she knew that by the way the male patrons in
the restaurant sneaked glances in her direction. It was because
of Harrison that she wanted to look good. There was no doubt
in her mind that there was a definite attraction between them. At
this point, however, she wasn't sure how far she wanted to take
it.
She immediately spotted him deep in conversation with Ed-
mond and Blythe Farnsworth at the bar. The couple were sport-
ing healthy, glowing tans. They must have just returned from
Palm Springs, she thought.
As Rena walked over to them, Blythe's face lit up. She was
wearing white cotton pants and a tight white blouse that exposed
the curves of her firm figure. Rena's immediate impression was
that the style of clothing would be better suited for an eighteen-
year-old.
Blythe slid off the stool and enthusiastically grabbed Rena's
hands. "It's so good seeing you again. When Harrison told me
he was meeting you tonight, I couldn't believe it! I thought you
weren't coming back to Napa for quite a while."
195

' 'I changed my mind.'' She could see rather than sense Blythe's
joy. Once again she felt that this woman was playacting. Rena
turned to Edmond and shook his hand. The liver spots on the
back of his hands were more pronounced because of his tan. His
lips were cracked, and he was continuously licking at them.
Probably because of the dry weather in the desert resort, she
thought to herself. "How was Palm Springs?" she asked.
"Hot but lovely," Edmond replied.
"Boring," Blythe immediately followed up.
The Famsworths turned and glared at each other for a brief
second.
Rena sensed that not all was tranquil between them.
"Blythe and Edmond asked if it would be all right to join us,"
Harrison said to Rena, shrugging helplessly.
"Of course it's all right," she replied. He seems edgy tonight.
Not his usual, relaxed self, she thought.
The maitre d' came over and told them that their table was
ready. As they followed him through the maze of tables, Rena
could see a large percentage of Asian patrons in the restaurant.
She was aware that every year more and more wineries were
being bought up by the foreign companies. Once this valley was
filled with independent vintners like Peter McKinney. They came
from Italy, France, and other parts of Europe with little or no
money. The one thing they all had in common was that their
roots were planted firmly in generations of wine makers. That
and the desire to grow grapes in a new land was enough for them.
So much has changed, Rena thought. When she spent her
summers here as a child, the visitors were at a minimum and the
quaintness was real. Now: all the streets of St. Helena, Calistoga,
and Yountville were lined with souvenir shops and trendy restau-
rants. Every day thousands of upscale tourists in their BMWs,
drunk from hitting one too many wineries, swerved crookedly
down Highway 29 trying to make it to the next tasting room
before it closed. The men wore Ralph Lauren sweaters tied
around their necks and the women were dressed to the hilt in
their Anne Kleins. They'd hold glasses of cabernets up to the
light, gently swirling the red liquid around and sniffing it. Clos-
ing their eyes, they'd take a small sip and swish the wine from
cheek to cheek as if they were gargling mouthwash. If they liked
what they tasted, they nodded their approval; if not, they wrin-
kled up their noses. The wine makers always waited patiently,
their eyes filled with amusement. They had learned tolerance
196

because these city people with their peculiar affectations have
made them very rich over the years.
Throughout most of the dinner Edmond ignored his wife and
leaned over Harrison's chair to talk to him about the wine busi-
ness. His hands were trembling and there were muscle spasms
in his face. She wondered if he was feeling well.
Rena looked over at Harrison. He seemed anxious, deep in
thought, and was only half listening to Edmond. Occasionally
Harrison would glance over to Rena with a "what can I do"
expression. Blythe talked on and on to Rena about Palm Springs
and how it's become nothing more than a retirement village—
'God's waiting room,' she caustically referred to it. She was
chain-smoking, no longer seeming to care about her husband's
heart condition as she did the night of Simon Halbrook's dinner
party. Every few minutes she would look at Rena, roll her eyes
dramatically in Edmond's and Harrison's direction, and silently
mouth the word boring.
Things have deteriorated between her and Edmond, Rena
believed, and she wondered if the difference in their ages was
beginning to take its toll. How old was she? Thirty-eight? Forty-
five? She couldn't really tell. Blythe looked good—tall, slim, and
tight-skinned. The looks she received from their young waiter
confirmed this.
From the corner of her eye, Rena saw Otto van der Slyck enter
the restaurant and saunter over to the bar. Like most of the other
male customers here tonight, he was wearing a cotton sweater
slung over his shoulders and tied around his neck. He sat down
on the stool and began talking to the bartender. Whatever Otto
said made him laugh. The bartender, still chuckling, then poured
a bourbon over crushed ice and handed it to him. Otto took a
cigarette out of a gold case, lit it, and slowly exhaled the smoke.
Rena turned back to the table. The busboy was serving coffee.
Edmond was still deep in conversation with Harrison, and Blythe
was now having eye contact with their waiter across the room.
The last time they were together, Blythe told Rena that she had
insisted she and Edmond sign a prenuptial agreement. Rena
wondered, as she watched Blythe flirt with the waiter, whether
she would soon regret that decision.
Glancing back at the bar, she saw Otto staring at her. When
he caught her eye, he held his glass up to her in greeting then
finished off the rest of the bourbon in it. Rena had been meaning
to talk to him and perhaps this was as good a time as any. Other
197

than Harrison, she doubted very much if anyone else at this table
would miss her. She excused herself and said she'd be back in a
few minutes.
As she walked over to Otto, she noticed the reddish haze in
his frog-eyes and realized that this was not the first bar stool he
had sat on tonight.
"Greetings and salutations, my sister," he said smiling at her
as he handed the bartender his empty glass.
"Excuse me?" she uttered, surprised by his remark.
"Didn't you know?"
"Know what?" Rena slid onto the stool next to him.
"Right now your father and my dear mother are spending an
amorous, carnal weekend together in Monterey." He batted his
long, white-blond eyelashes at her.
"No I didn't know," Rena said. She was a little disturbed by
that. She didn't particularly like Monica van der Slyck, but that
was Simon's business and not hers. "They're grown-ups. They
can do whatever they want."
"If they marry we will be brother and sister you know."
"We'll deal with that monumental event when and if it comes
to that," she said with an icy tone. Again Otto fluttered his eyes.
The light color and thin hairs of his eyelids reminded Rena of
cocoon fibers closing around a caterpillar. A wave of anger rushed
through her, and she fought to dispel it.
The bartender brought Otto his bourbon. Rena ordered a Cal-
istoga water.
"I saw you up in the hills near Maura's winery when the FBI
was there," she said.
"Did you? I saw you, too. Who was that cute man with the
blond hair you were talking to?" he asked playfully.
"What were you doing on the McKinney property?" she
asked, ignoring his question.
He was jolted by her directness. Then resuming his frivolous
composure, he said, "Contemplating life. Pretending I was Tho-
reau. Why?"
"I don't think so," she said casually, squeezing the lime into
her drink. "I think you were spying. In fact, I think you do that
a lot. It's sort of a hobby with you.''
The inane smile finally disappeared from his face. His eyes
hardened and he said, "Are you trying to insult me?"
"No, just being open. That's what sisters and brothers are
198

supposed to do. So tell me, why were you hanging around Mau-
ra's property?"
"I don't have to answer you," he said abruptly. He stood up
to move to another stool.
"You will have to answer to that cute man with the blond hair
if I relay my suspicions to him. He's with the FBI."
He turned back to her. "What suspicions?"
She patted his stool. "Sit down, Otto, and I'll tell you more."
He slowly sat down.
"At my father's dinner party you mentioned that last year you
used to see Maura leave at night and return at five in the morning.
Where did she go?"
He let out a deep nervous breath. "I don't know."
"Oh, yes you do. You were confident she was going to meet
her lover."
"Was I?"
"Yes. Since your hobby is snooping, I strongly believe you
made it a habit of following her."
"Oooh please!" he moaned. Taking another cigarette from
his case, he tapped the end on the bar top to pack the tobacco
down, then lit it. "I don't need this craziness in my life." He
looked dramatically up at the ceiling and let out a long stream of
smoke.
' 'Otto, I will tell the FBI." Then Rena decided to take a gam-
ble. "Especially about my thoughts on Tomas Sanchez."
Otto's bulbous eyes widened in fear. He turned his face to
Rena. Clearing his throat, he said, "What the hell are you talking
about?"
"You were in charge of hiring the workers in your mother's
winery. What possessed you to hire a man like Tomas Sanchez?''
"He was Mexican. Picking fruit is in their blood," he said
with a smirk.
No, she did not like this man at all. "I don't think that's the
reason, Otto," Rena said, trying to control her temper. "Tomas
Sanchez was from the barrio. He didn't know a grape from a
watermelon. He also spent most of his life in jail. I think that's
what probably intrigued you about him."
Otto gave her a scathing look. She liked the fact that she was
getting to him.
"I bet you found him somewhere on the streets of Los An-
geles. Maybe even in the barrio. You go in for a little rough
trade, don't you, Otto?"
199

His forehead was now glistening with sweat. She liked that,
too.
"His tattoos turn you on, Otto? Maybe to the point where you
invited him to spend the summer with you here in Napa? Of
course you couldn't tell Mama, so it had to look like he had a
job picking grapes."
His temples began to throb with anger, and his face turned
red. "You are a bitch, you know that?"
"Sometimes I can be, Otto," she said sweetly. "Tomas was
a sex offender. I knew about his rape conviction. I bet if I dug
deeper, I'd find out that he also liked boys, especially since he
spent a good part of his life incarcerated. Did that turn you on,
too, Otto? The part about him being a rapist?"
His mouth was now quivering. He looked up at her with plead-
ing eyes, then looked around him. "Let's go to the end of the
bar. It's less crowded there," he said with a shaky voice. He
stood up and moved over several stools. Rena followed. When
he sat down again, he hunched his torso over the counter and
held his face in his hands.
Rena turned and saw Harrison looking in her direction. She
waved and held up one finger, meaning that she'd be back in a
minute. At first Harrison frowned, then he nodded in under-
standing. Rena turned again to Otto. "I'm bordering on being
rude to other people right now so I don't have much time to be
subtle." She pushed her drink aside and leaned into the counter
so that she was only inches from his face. ' 'Where did Maura go
at night?"
Otto let out a sigh, rubbed his face, then said, "To some kind
of lagoon or pond that was hidden away by trees and bushes. I
only followed her there a few times last year."
' 'I know about the spring,'' Rena said. "How did Tomas know
about it?"
"What?"
"Tomas wasn't killed in Maura's vineyards. He was killed
next to the spring."
He nodded slowly in acknowledgment then finished off his
drink.
"You knew? How could you? That was never brought out in
the media," she said, shocked.
"Yes, I know where he died. Oh, Gawd, if my mother finds
out about any of this!" His hand was twitching as he brushed it
through his hair. He looked at the bartender and once again
200

pointed to his empty glass. In a quivering voice, he said, "Tomas
was getting bored. He tolerated me, I suppose because living up
here was a hell of a lot better than living in the streets. That's
where I first met him—cruising the streets around La Brea and
Sunset as a male prostitute over a year ago. I picked him up. I
knew he wasn't gay, that he was only in it for the money. The
thing that turned me on about him was you never knew when
he'd turn violent. That's my thing, I guess." There was an ex-
citement in Otto's eyes as he visualized some of the things that
Tomas had done to him. "Last summer was nice. I took him to
Europe. Then he came back to Napa with me. You're right, I
pretended he was the help so no one would suspect. He suddenly
disappeared in the fall, and I didn't see him again until several
months ago when he just showed up at my door in San Francisco.
He came back up to Napa to stay with me this summer. A couple
of weeks ago, the day before Maura came up, he told me he
wanted to leave, that he missed the action in the streets. I didn't
want him to go." Again he sighed.
Rena knew he was ready to talk about it. "Go on, Otto," she
said gendy. She had him open now and there was no reason to
close him up again by being harsh with him.
"I found out from Manuel, the man who runs Maura Mc-
Kinney's winery, that she was expected up here sometime that
day. I told Tomas. I knew he liked women better than men. In
order to get him to stay, I told him that there was a beautiful
blond goddess coming up to Napa and that she always swims
naked in this pond. He laughed at me. He said that he already
knew about her and where she swam. He said that he had plans
for her."
Rena was stunned. "He said that he already knew about her?
How?"
Otto shrugged. "I don't know. He didn't tell me."
"What kind of plans?"
"What do you think? Don't be naive. The night Maura first
arrived up here, Tomas told me he was going out. I asked him
where, but he wouldn't tell me. When I tried to press it, he
smacked me across the face." Looking embarrassed, Otto
touched the place on his cheek where Tomas must have hit him.
"I followed him down to the spring on Maura's property and
watched him hide behind some bushes. He was waiting for her.
He didn't know I was there, about thirty feet away. When it was
turning dark, Maura came to the spring. The fog was so thick
201

and the sun was almost down, so it was hard to see." Otto paused
to finish off the drink. "I could only make out shadows. I saw
her take her robe off and go into the spring."
"Go on," she said to him. Her stomach was beginning to
twist inside her because of what was about to come.
"A large fog bank rolled in. I couldn't see anything. In a few
minutes I heard her scream. Then I heard Tomas scream. Except
his scream was pain where hers was rage. Hers wasn't human.
It was like a cornered animal." His eyes were popping from
their sockets with fear as he told the story. He paused again.
Rena knew he was contemplating another drink. "Continue,''
she said softly, swallowing the bile that was coming up in her
throat.
He rubbed his eyes, trying to clear the alcohol from them.
"There's nothing more to tell. I ran like hell. If you heard that
sound coming from her, you would have run, too."
Again Rena turned to her table. Harrison was looking annoyed
and Blythe was also glancing her way with a quizzical expression
on her face. Rena turned back to Otto. "Quickly, Otto," she
said between clenched teeth. "You said Maura may have had a
boyfriend. Why do you think that?"
"Because I saw him. When I followed her to the spring last
year he would meet her there.''
"How do you know he was a boyfriend? Did you see him do
anything with her?" Rena felt queasy discussing Maura's sex life
with him.
"Yes, I saw." He rolled his large eyes affectedly to the fan on
the ceiling, then lit up another cigarette.
' 'What did you see?''
"Oh my, we are digging tonight, aren't we?" He attempted a
smirk but quickly dropped it when he saw the look on Rena's
face. "It was always dark when she went to the pond, and she
never carried a flashlight. She seemed to know instinctively where
she was going at night. This disgusting old man would meet her
there. Sometimes he'd be waiting. Other times he'd come after
she swam."
"Once again," she said impatiently, "What did you see?"
"Not very much. She'd lie down on the grass and this old
creep would touch her all over."
"Was she naked?
"Yes."
"Was he?"
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"No."
"Where did he mostly touch her?"
"My Gawd, you are something!" He flipped the ash on the
floor from his cigarette. "He touched her all over, mostly by the
genital area. I couldn't see much because it was night."
Strange, she thought. Why would Maura let an old man fondle
her? She almost killed that beautiful Greek boy when he just tried
kissing her on Paros.
"Do you know who that man was?"
"No."
"Have you ever seen him before?"
He just shook his head no and held his glass up to the bar-
tender.
"Was there anything unusual about him?" she asked, frus-
trated.
"Nothing, except..."
"Except what?" She leaned in closer.
"He always wore a white hat. The kind you saw Sidney
Greenstreet wear in those old Bogart movies."
Rena closed her eyes as it hit home. Dr. Winston Frawley!
She had seen him wearing that hat the day they took away the
body of Tomas Sanchez in Maura's vineyard. Then something
else hit home: Frawley wasn't sexually groping her—he was most
likely inspecting her!
But for what? What was wrong with her, and why did he do
it under the cover of night?
Chapter Twenty-four
_R
ena left Otto at the bar and went back to the table. Har-
rison seemed irritated by the length of time she was away.
She took her jacket from the back of her chair and leaned over
him. Touching his arm, she said, "I've got to leave."
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He looked up at her and saw something was wrong. "Where
are you going?"
"I'll talk to you about it tomorrow,'' she whispered nervously.
She said good night to Edmond and to Blythe, whose face was
etched with disappointment, then left the restaurant.
She got into the Range Rover and drove north to Calistoga.
Frawley had to have been examining her! There couldn't have
been anything sexual about their relationship. He was the one
who brought Maura into the world. But why see her at the spring—
and only at night? Frawley had a lot of questions to answer.
What a sick, pathetic man Otto was! He actually was going to
set Maura up to be raped by Sanchez at the spring. He said Tomas
already knew about her. How? Did he see her swimming naked
in the spring last year? No, she didn't think so. Then another
thought occurred to Rena—one that made more sense: perhaps
someone else had also told Tomas about Maura. But who? Who
else other than Otto, Frawley, and Manuel knew that Maura went
alone to the spring?
Maura's scream sounded like that of a cornered animal, Otto
told her. What did he expect a woman to sound like who was
about to be violated? Rena was pulsating with rage. Brother and
sister? Not in this millennium! She would deal with Otto in her
own good time. Right now she had to see Winnie. He knew more
about Maura than he was willing to talk about—she was sure of
it.
Then clouds began to part in her head, and she finally saw
some sunlight. Winnie . . . Wiggly. My God! Maura probably
substituted Wiggly for the name Winnie as a child and called him
Uncle Wiggly as a term of affection! The nickname "Uncle Wig-
gly" probably stuck between them throughout the years.
Traffic was light this time of night, and she stepped on the
gas. She wanted to get to Calistoga as quickly as possible. Fifteen
minutes later she pulled up at the curb directly in front of his
house. The area of his home that was the office looked dark but
the top floor was lit up. Rena assumed that he used the upstairs
as his living quarters.
She got out of the car, walked up to the door, and rang his
bell. No one answered. She waited a minute then tried again.
This time she listened for his footsteps. There were none. She
tried the door and found that it was locked.
He has to be home, she thought. Over to the side she could
see the trunk of his car through the crack in the garage.
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Rena walked around to the back. The earth was damp, and
her high heels dug deeply into the soft ground. She tried the back
door, but it was also locked. Then she saw his small winery about
a hundred feet down from the house. It was a wooden building
no bigger than a large shed. All the windows were closed, how-
ever there was a small light on inside. The path was dark, and
she had to watch where she was walking in order to avoid the
ditches. Rena peered inside, but it was impossible to see any-
thing through the dirt-streaked windows. She pushed down on
the door handle, and the lock clicked open.
Except for a dim naked light bulb hanging near the door, the
winery was filled with dark shadows. There was also a strong,
thick odor of fermenting wine saturating the room. The air was
so dense that it was almost impossible to breathe. She felt both
sides of the wall next to the door until she came to the light
switch. When she turned it on, the room erupted into a strong
halo of light that temporarily blinded her. She let her eyes adjust
to the brightness for a couple of seconds, then looked around.
Over to the left was the destemming machine. Next to it was the
metal press. She felt light-headed from the carbon dioxide that
the fermenting wine released in the air. If Frawley was ferment-
ing wine, why did he keep the windows closed? He had to have
known how dangerous this was without proper ventilation.
Then she looked over to the five-thousand-gallon stainless-
steel tank in the back of the winery and got her answer.
Frawley's feet were on the top rung of an eight-foot ladder
with his head and body slumped over inside the open tank. His
arms dangled lifelessly at his side.
Rena was feeling too weak at this point to be shocked. She
knew that if she didn't get out of here she'd soon be as dead as
Frawley. Her body swayed from side to side as she made her way
to the door. Outside in the fresh air she dropped to the ground.
Holding her head in her hands, she breathed deeply until the
dizziness passed. Then she got up and went over to the back door
of Frawley's house. Picking up a rock from the ground, she put
it through one of the windowpanes, reached her hand in, and
unlocked the door.
Once inside she quickly found the telephone by the kitchen
wall and called the police. She told them what had happened.
"The paramedics will be there in five minutes," the voice on
the other end said.
Obviously this policeman doesn't know anything about making
205

wine. "It's too late for the paramedics. Send the coroner's
wagon," she replied, then hung up. Rena did know something
about wine making and also knew about some of the dangers.
While wine is fermenting in a tank, there's an invisible one-foot
layer on the top that's pure carbon dioxide. If someone put their
head in that "no man's land," he'd die within seconds. Frawley
must have known that. He was a vintner as well as a doctor.
Still feeling dizzy, Rena went over to the sink and put a dish
towel under the cold faucet. She then sat down at the kitchen
table, put the cold compress on her head, and waited for the
police to arrive.
Chapter Twenty-five
^^ ¥ eez, what a shitty thing this is," Pinky muttered, shaken
hM up. He was standing next to Rena near the open door of
Frawley's winery. They watched solemnly as two firemen wear-
ing oxygen masks stood on ladders and carefully lifted the doc-
tor's body down from the steel tank. When the light came directly
over his head, they could see a purplish cast on his face and his
swollen tongue protruded halfway out of his mouth. "I know
he's been fighting cancer for a long time and his practice was
next to nothing, but still ..." Pinky didn't finish the sentence.
He was taking in deep breaths of air.
"Maybe he was carrying something around with him that just
got too heavy," Rena said thoughtfully.
The firemen brought the body out on a stretcher, and Rena
and Pinky moved away from the door to let them through. The
headlights from the morgue truck at the side of the house cap-
tured hundreds of insects fluttering wildly in their glow.
Pinky looked at her with a confused expression. "What could
he be carrying?" he said finally. "Doc Frawley's been around
forever. He's one of the most up-front guys you ever met."
206

"I don't know. I'm pretty sure that Frawley is the Uncle Wig-
gly that Maura planned to see in Napa."
He shot her a quick look. "How do you know?"
Rena then told him about Otto, and also about Frawley going
to the spring last year to see Maura.
"You mean to tell me that van der Slyck guy knew that Tomas
Sanchez was being murdered and didn't call the police?'' Pinky's
face was red with anger, and his lips were quivering.
"He also planned to have Sanchez rape her. It didn't work out
that way."
"That little faggot shit!'' Pinky slammed his hand hard against
the door of the winery. The sound was like an explosion ripping
through the still night. He then turned and looked out at the road
when he heard a car engine.
Dr. Walter Parsons pulled up to the side of the road next to
the morgue truck and got out of his sedan. He walked over to the
back of the van, pulled the sheet from Frawley's face, and looked
at the body. Parsons's fine blond hair dropped down over his
eyes, but he didn't bother to push it back as he touched the side
of the doctor's neck. His face was bleak.
"He's dead, Doc," Pinky said, walking over to him, still
trembling with anger over what Rena had told him.
"Yes, I can see." He emitted a long, steady sigh. "I was just
hoping you may have made a mistake when you called me. You
think it was suicide?" Parsons's voice was steady when he asked
that, but he couldn't hide the glassiness in his eyes. He and the
old doctor had become close over the past few months. Frawley
had taken him under his wing while he was setting up his new
practice in Geyserville.
"Can't be anything else but suicide. Frawley's been around
too long to know you don't stick your face in a vat of fermenting
wine. You've seen him a lot lately. Did he seem depressed?"
Pinky asked Parsons.
"Bitter, not depressed," he said grimly as he slapped a mos-
quito from his face. "But who wouldn't be? Over forty years of
practicing medicine and the only things he had to show for it
were a handful of unpaid Medicare bills and a diseased pan-
creas."
Rena walked over to them, rubbing her arms from the night
air. "I'd like to see his files," she said to Pinky.
Pinky let out a stream of air and shook his head slowly. "Gee,
I don't know, Rena."
207

' 'I think Frawley was treating Maura medically for something,
and it just may be important. That's why she probably came up
here for two weeks out of the year. She always went to the spring
at night, and Frawley would meet her there. Otto said he watched
him touch her sexually, but it sounded more like Frawley was
performing some kind of an examination. Manuel told me there's
salt in that water. Maybe she had a skin disease. Also, maybe it
was Frawley who was dispensing the drugs to her without a pre-
scription. Perhaps he kept records of those transactions."
"The FBI should be looking at those papers then, Rena."
"Let me find out if there's anything for them to look at."
Pinky kicked a pebble from under his foot, rubbed the back
of his neck, and thought about it. "I have to get back to the
station and fill out a death report on Frawley. I can leave a man
with you, I guess."
"I'll stay with her," Parsons said. "If there's anything tech-
nical in his papers I can help."
Pinky looked up, scratched the smooth fat skin under his chin,
then finally nodded his head. "Just don't take anything out of
there," he said. He walked over to one of the officers, told him
to stay at the house while Rena and Parsons looked through Fraw-
ley's belongings, then drove back to the station.
Rena and Parsons went inside the house and into Frawley's
office. She turned on the lamp. The desk was covered with pa-
tients' dusty, medical-history folders that Frawley had never
bothered to file away. Parsons began to browse through them.
She went over to the oak file cabinet and looked under "M."
The only McKinney folders she found were Peter's and Clair's.
Maura's wasn't in there.
"What did he do with them?" she wondered out loud. Rena
quickly skimmed through the file on Peter McKinney. It said that
he died from a car accident. He was pronounced dead at San
Francisco General Hospital on October 3, 1974. Then Rena
looked over Clair McKinney's folder. Her health was poor the
last couple of years of her life. She had undergone a mastectomy
on her right breast for cancer a year before she died. Under cause
of death Frawley had typed:' 'internal hemorrhaging due to preg-
nancy." He then went on to say that the child born to Clair,
christened Maura Wilma McKinney, was a seven-pound, eight-
ounce healthy baby girl.
Rena put the files back into the cabinet. Strange, Rena thought.
There was no mention of William Tyrone McKinney, Maura's
208

twin who had been born dead. Why not? Then out of the corner
of her eye Rena saw Frawley's medical equipment through the
doorway into the other room.
"Nothing in those files?" Parsons asked, dropping a bunch
of folders back down on the desk.
Rena didn't answer him. She went into the examining room
and stared at the ultrasound machine. It was new and barely
used. Why would Frawley purchase such an expensive machine
when he knew he was retiring?
"Do you have ultrasound equipment in your office? " she asked
Parsons.
"No reason to," he said, walking into the room where Rena
was. "Gynecologists use that toy." He stopped short when he
saw the machine. "What the hell!" he uttered. "What would
Winnie want with this?''
"You never saw it before?"
"No, he always kept this door closed when I came here. This
machine is for seeing fetuses in their mothers' wombs. But
pregnant women in Napa don't go to general practitioners any
longer."
Next to the small refrigerator containing drugs, Rena saw an-
other file cabinet. It was made of black metal and had only one
drawer. She bent down and tried the handle. It was locked. Par-
sons took a suture scissor from the instrument drawer and knelt
down next to Rena. He stuck the tip of the scissor between the
lock and the cabinet and lifted up. The lock snapped and Rena
pulled it open. There were several files inside, each one filled
with papers and photographs. Some of the folders were torn and
yellowed with age. The tab on each one of them had Maura
McKinney's name on it and was dated with the year and month.
Excitement and fear raced through Rena's body. She grabbed a
batch of the files and put them on the gurney in the middle of the
room. Parsons snatched up the rest and did the same.
"Start from the earliest one," she said to Parsons.
The date on the oldest folder was 1957, the year Maura was
born. Rena opened it up and saw a black-and-white photograph
attached by a paper clip to the inside of the folder. It was a close-
up of the sexual organs of a newborn baby. An adult male's hand
was in the picture holding the penis of the child over to the side.
What Rena saw next made her gasp. Under the scrotum was a
vagina. Rena turned the picture over. Printed in faded pencil
markings were the words: Maura McKinney—three weeks old.
209

Parsons grabbed the file and scanned Frawley's notes. He then
looked at Rena. His breath was heavy and shaky when he said,
"This says that Maura has all the telltale signs of true hermaph-
roditism. That means she has the exterior organs of both male
and female. He writes that the penis as well as the vagina appear
perfectly normal." Parsons put down the notes and said, "I re-
member studying hermaphroditism in medical school, but there
were so few cases in existence that there wasn't much discussion
for it."
"My God!" Rena blurted out. No wonder Maura couldn't
stand being touched by a man. He would find out what she was!
The lonely existence she must have led having to hide this from
everyone!
Again Rena was reminded about the words of the old lady in
Greece: "You are evil! You are the child of Hermes!" Now she
finally understood: The child of Hermes must have been the god
Hermaphrodite. The old woman somehow knew.
Except there were operations that could correct this kind of
permutation. Perhaps she had one as a child. Maybe I'm just
jumping to conclusions in order to have a better understanding
of Maura. Let's see," she thought. Her head was spinning.
They took the rest of the folders into Frawley's office and
browsed through them. Black-and-white photos turned to color
as the dates on the files changed. Some of them were full shots
of Maura standing naked and unsmiling against a wall. How
beautiful she was then! Rena thought to herself. Her breasts were
beginning to flower, and pubic hair was starting to grow. In each
picture she could see the penis transforming itself from that of a
child's to an adolescent's.
There was no operation!
Rena didn't understand why Maura was never sent to a spe-
cialist. Why would Frawley, a general practitioner who obviously
knew nothing about this rare abnormality, try to treat her
himself?
Rena skimmed some of the other files until she came to the
one dated 1974. That was the year when Martin was murdered.
She opened the folder. It contained only a few brief notes about
Maura's erratic behavior the day of Martin's death. There was
also the address of a private mental institution outside of Tacoma,
Washington. Riverside Hospital. That must be where Maura was
sent when she had her breakdown. Frawley's handwriting was on
back of the piece of paper. It said that Valium and lithium were
210

recommended by a psychiatrist named Neil Tompson at the hos-
pital. Was that the place she was getting the Parnate and Xanax
from? Rena thought. She doubted these drugs were available in
1974. Prescribing lithium and Valium was the standard proce-
dure back then. Rena knew that Xanax is now substituted in
many cases for Valium.
"Oh Christ!" Parsons muttered. "Look at this!"
Rena moved her chair closer to his and looked at the folder he
was holding. It was the latest one, dated last year at this time.
Inside were several black-and-white Polaroid snapshots. She put
them under the desk lamp to see them better. The pictures were
translucent, almost like X rays, but it was obvious that they were
of the interior lower half of a human torso. Except there was
something different about them. Something very different!
"These photos were taken right from the pictures on the mon-
itor of the ultrasound machine," Parsons said with a quaver in
his voice. "You're looking at the internal workings of someone
who's both man and woman. I've never seen this before," he
said in awe. "Even in medical school I've never seen this! Look
here!" He pointed his finger to the white outline of the scrotum.
"There's only one testicle, and it's on the right side." He then
pointed to the upper left portion of the picture. ' 'This round thing
here is an ovary!"
Rena stared at the pictures. She was astonished.
"Here's the uterus and it's attached to the vagina. Over here
is the fallopian tube. That means she probably has menstruation
cycles. See this?" His finger moved over to a gland above the
penis. "It's the seminal vesicle. Only a man has that! This just
can't be real! Look at this." He pointed to the outline of a duct
under the scrotum. "This tube is known as the vas deferens.
That's where semen is stored before it joins the urethra."
"That means Maura is capable of having sex with a man as
well as a woman," Rena uttered softly as she thought back to
what Grant had said about finding semen in the body of the
victim Harriet Crowe. Did Maura kill the woman, then have sex
with her just as Gustave de Montret did with his prey?
Parsons picked up a single yellow page from a legal pad that
was in the folder. After scanning it for a second, he said, "It
looks like Winnie bought the ultrasound machine last year in
order to see what's inside Maura. That's when he found out that
she had ovarian as well as testicular tissue."
"Half man, half woman. Unbelievable! This form of her-
211

maphroditism is as mythical and rare as the unicorn," Rena said.
She was shocked. All these years of hiding something like this!
Still looking at the page, Parsons said, "Winnie believes her
condition was probably caused by whole-body chimerism." Par-
sons slouched back in the chair. "This is fascinating!"
"What's that?" Rena asked.
"The fusion of embryos. All this happens early on when the
egg in the woman first gets fertilized." He made one hand into
a fist and cupped the other hand. "Say you're having fraternal
twins—one's a boy and the other one's a girl. This is the brother.''
He held up his balled fist. "This is the sister." He showed Rena
his cupped hand. Then he put the cupped hand around his fisted
one. "The sister embryo fuses together with the brother, taking on
his chromosomes. The chances of this happening have to be
one in a billion."
Rena's mind was racing. She was thinking about Maura's eyes.
"Maura has two different-colored eyes. One is blue and the other
brown."
Parsons became excited. "That seems right! That medical pe-
culiarity is known as irideal heterochromia. Remember, one half
of Maura is actually her brother. Think of it as one of her eyes
belonging to him. She has light skin and blond hair, right?"
Rena nodded.
"Then I'm willing to bet her twin would have had brown eyes
if he could have been born. Even though he was devoured in the
early stages of pregnancy by her embryo, in reality he still exists
today in her body. Jesus, this is fascinating!"
' 'What you're saying is that no part of the male twin ever came
through the birth canal?"
"He couldn't. He no longer existed. As I said, it happens very
early during pregnancy. Think of it almost as cannibalism—one
embryo swallowing the other and taking on its characteristics."
Rena brushed back her hair. Something wasn't making sense.
Why was there a grave site for Maura's twin brother then if there
never was a body? No, it wasn't making sense at all. She went
over to the phone and dialed Pinky at the station.
When he answered the phone, she said, "Pinky, you're going
to have to dig up a grave."
"Whose?" he asked surprised.
"William Tyrone McKinney."
"Who's that?"
"Maura's twin brother."
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"I didn't know she had one." He sounded surprised. "Why
do you want me to do that?''
"Because he never was. And if he never was, then I'd like to
know what the hell is buried in that grave."
By the time Rena drove back to the Alexander Valley it was
after ten. There was no moon tonight, and the clouds were low
and thick. The chateau up on the hill looked like a black, shape-
less form that loomed forebodingly out of the earth. She turned
off the alarm system and let herself in. The house was dark and
silent, which meant the help had left for the night.
Rena turned on the lights and went into the living room. She
walked to the record cabinet, put a Mozart Concerto on the turn-
table, then poured herself a stiff cognac. She kicked her muddy
shoes off, sat on the three-hundred-year-old couch, and put her
feet up on the antique table next to it. Her head was spinning
from the events of the past few hours.
Winston Frawley's suicide.
Maura—half man, half woman. Jesus Christ!
She rubbed her temples and took a deep sip of the cognac. It
burned her throat and stomach, but it helped quiet her mind.
A true hermaphrodite! How phenomenal. There couldn't be
more than twenty documented cases like hers in existence today.
Except Maura had an attached uterus and fallopian tubes. That
was something Rena never heard of before. My God, she may
actually be able to bear children! Maura is rarer than rare, she
thought. She is a unicorn!
A wave of sorrow suddenly swept over her. This woman/man
had kept it a secret from the world for all these years. She had
been Maura's best friend and she never knew—never even had
an inkling that she was different from everyone else. Only Dr.
Frawley and Peter McKinney knew of her abnormality. No, that's
not true! Martin also knew! He had to. Didn't Maura tell her
how she and Martin used to go swimming naked in the spring
when they were young? There was no doubt in her mind that they
had also made love later on when they were older. Rena shivered
thinking about how totally and unquestionably Martin accepted
her. How totally they accepted one another.
Rena's eyes began to water, and she took another sip of co-
gnac. Very few people had loved as completely and with such
passion as they had. Martin was her real link to the outside world.
With him she could be open; he was the guardian of her secret.
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When he died, her access to the world closed, and she withdrew
into herself—never allowing anyone to touch her or wanting love
again.
Rena sighed. The tears were flowing freely down her face
now, and she didn't bother to wipe them away. Were they not the
same, she and Maura? She, too, had loved her husband with
such passion. When he betrayed her, didn't she also withdraw?
And Charlie—when his wife butchered the one thing he loved,
his daughter—he surrounded himself with thornbushes, daring
anyone to touch him. Rena silently toasted all the broken wings
and scarred carcasses of the world, then finished off her drink.
The record ended and she got up to turn it over. Mozart's
Concerto 21 in C minor filled the cavernous living room. She
poured herself another drink, something she rarely did, and sat
back down on the couch. Rena always felt Maura was an enigma.
Knowing about her condition now helped fill in so many missing
pieces. Rena thought about Maura's preoccupation with ancient
Greek art. She remembered the day in Athens when Maura
slipped away from her when they were touring the Archaeolog-
ical Museum. She found her upstairs in a room far from the rest
of the crowd, preoccupied by the statues of the fertility gods.
She said she felt at home there. Now Rena understood what she
had meant: Hermaphrodite was also a Greek god. Maura needed
something, even if it was mythology, to make her feel like she
belonged, that she wasn't alone in the world. That's why she
majored in it in college. But mythology had no place in today's
world—a world that Maura subconsciously longed to belong to.
Those gods, including Hermaphrodite, were long dead. That's
why she abruptiy dropped her studies after graduation and went
on to law school. At least the law was alive and changing; it dealt
with people, not dust-covered myths.
Rena thought about the time Maura had changed into a bathing
suit on the island of Paros. She went in the bathroom to change
because I was in the bedroom! When they trekked down to the
beach, Maura walked very slowly, holding her stomach in pain.
She said it was her period and that she got it bad every month.
"Oh, shit!'' Rena said out loud, suddenly understanding. What
Maura probably was doing all that time in the bathroom was
taping down her male genitals so that they wouldn't be noticed
in the tight bathing suit. The pain must have been terrible, Rena
thought. Especially when she had to physically climb down the
214

path leading to the beach. Why the hell hadn't she told her? She
would have understood.
"Or would I have understood?" she mumbled out loud. I was
so young then, she thought. So desperately wanting to be ac-
cepted by the world myself. Would I have accepted Maura, who
was so different?
Rena continued to sip her drink. Her eyelids were becoming
heavy, and she was grateful that sleep would soon be engulfing
her.
Peter McKinney's skulking face appeared in her mind. Why
had he hidden Maura's extraordinariness from the medical pro-
fession? She remembered him as a powerfully built, brooding
man. A man whose universe caved in when his wife, Clair, died
in childbirth. Yes, he, too, like the rest of us, had been scarred
from love. He was a proud Irishman who kept to himself. There
were moments when he seemed alive and showed warmth when
he was around Maura. Mostly, however, he sat on the porch
sipping his Bushmill and silently watched her every move. On
rare occasions, like the day in the attic when he had too much to
drink, an angry outburst would erupt from somewhere deep
within him. The next day when he was sober, he'd apologize,
then go back to working his fields like nothing ever happened.
So why didn't he get proper medical help for Maura ?
Peter McKinney came from a European, male-oriented soci-
ety; both sexes knew their places in it. To conceive a child, es-
pecially a male child, was a cause for great celebration. But to
plant his fertile seed in Clair and produce a child that was double-
sexed must have been painful for a man like him. His pride would
never allow his neighbors to know what his loins created. Fraw-
ley knew because he delivered Maura. Perhaps the doctor agreed
to treat Maura rather than send her to specialists. Why would he
do that? Maybe he felt unappreciated by his colleagues and
wanted to take care of Maura as a means of showing them he
was their equal. There was no doubt in Rena's mind after meeting
him that he was bitter about his failed practice.
Perhaps there was another reason Frawley took care of Maura,
she thought as she stretched her tired body out on the couch.
Many civilizations, especially male-dominated ones, have been
known to slay newborns that were physically deformed. Did Pe-
ter McKinney threaten Frawley with that? Rena knew how ter-
rifying McKinney's anger could be. According to Charlie, he was
schooled by the IRA in Ireland, then the OSS during the war.
2 IS

Peter was well-trained and quite capable of murdering someone,
perhaps even his own child if need be.
Was that why Frawley killed himself? Maybe he became
frightened by McKinney's threats and took on a commitment that
was way over his head. He was not a well man. Did he feel
responsible for Maura's slide into insanity? Was the guilt of what
he did, or rather of what he didn't do, become too much for the
old man? By the time McKinney died, Maura's secret had be-
come a way of life for her. Without proper psychological coun-
seling, she would never bring herself to get correct medical
treatment. That would mean letting the world into places that
only Martin had been allowed to see. Maura, in her own way,
had become like Peter McKinney: proud, secretive, and very
much alone.
"Ah Maura. My dear, strange friend," Rena muttered as she
closed her eyes. "I know you're out there looking for me, aren't
you? What die hell will you do when you find me?"
The phone rang sharply, startling her. Pushing the thoughts of
Maura from her mind, she picked up the receiver. "Hello?"
"Is Maura a man?" It was Agent Grant. He did not sound
happy.
"What?"
"We ran a DNA fingerprint check on the semen found in
Harriet Crowe. It contained the same genetic bands as the vaginal
fluid discovered on Arnie Baker's penis. The hair samples be-
longing to your buddy, Maura, also contained the same DNA
markings. Is this some kind of a goddamn joke?"
Rena massaged the back of her neck, took a deep breath, then
said. "I was going to call you in the morning, but I guess now
is as good a time as any. I suggest you sit down for this, Marvin.''
She told him everything.
When she finally hung up on him, she felt totally exhausted.
Within minutes she fell into a sound sleep on the couch in spite
of the second movement to Mozart's Concerto blasting away on
the phonograph.
216

Chapter Twenty-six
_A
t six-thirty in the morning Rena was awakened by the
scratchy ring of the old French telephone sitting on the end
table next to the couch. The lamp was still on and there was a
faint, staccato swoosh coming from the needle on the turntable
that was endlessly circling the edge of the Mozart record. She
brushed the sleep from her eyes, stretched the stiffness out of her
body, then picked up the phone. "Hello," she said, clearing the
fog from her throat.
"You up?" It was Pinky Swangel.
"I am now," Rena said, yawning.
"I haven't been to bed yet." He sounded euphoric. "I've been
on the telephone all night with Judge Howell of the municipal
court trying to convince him to issue us a court order to open up
the grave of William Tyrone McKinney."
Rena bolted up. "How did you do?"
"I got it!" He was like a proud child who had just won a
potato-sack race.
Rena was now fully awake.' 'When are you going to open it?''
"I got three men digging at the grave site right now. Probably
have it open in about a half hour."
"Have you called the FBI?"
"Hell, no! This is my baby," he said adamantly.
Rena could almost see the smirk breaking out on Piilky's face
thinking that he, a hick cop, was one up on the Feds.
"I talked to Dr. Parsons last night. He told me what you found
out about Maura. Is what he said possible?"
She could tell he was upset. It was going to be hard for him
to understand what she is, just as it will be for most people when
all this is made public. "Yes, it's possible. But she's a rare phe-
nomenon. There's nothing freakish about her. You've known
Maura all your life. She's a brilliant and beautiful woman."
217

"There's got to be a mistake," he said sharply.
"There's no mistake, Pinky. She's just different."
"1 just never heard about someone having two sexes before."
"Very few people ever did. Look, I'll see you at the cemetery
in about twenty minutes." After hanging up, she went upstairs
to the bathroom and washed. There was no time for a shower;
she wanted to be at the grave site when the casket was opened.
She then changed into a fresh pair of jeans and a sweater and
quicldy sent a few brush strokes through her hair. Downstairs in
the kitchen, she made herself a mug of instant coffee, grabbed
her jean jacket from the closet, and took them with her.
Twenty minutes later she drove the Rover through the gates of
the old cemetery in Oakville. Pinky was looking over a gaping
cavity in the ground watching three of his men standing waist-
deep in the hole shoveling out dirt. His cheeks were redder than
usual because of the autumn nip in the air. The old priest who
headed the parish connected to the cemetery was by his side,
talking to him. A light, visible mist flowed from his mouth. His
face was as red as Pinky's, except his color seemed to come from
anger rather than the cold. Whatever he was saying made Pinky
emphatically shake his head no in response.
Rena got out of the four-wheeler. She buttoned up her Levi's
jacket to ward off the early-morning dampness, took the mug of
coffee from the Rover, and walked over to them.
When Pinky saw Rena he pointed his thumb at the old priest
and said to her, "Father Corrolli's telling me that I'm going to
rot in hell if I don't stop this digging."
"This is consecrated ground!" he said indignantiy. His lips
were trembling. "William Tyrone McKinney was given a Chris-
tian burial. It's a sacrilege against the church, against God, to do
this! You need permission from the archbishop to unearth a
Christian body."
Pinky held out blue-colored, legal-sized papers that were
folded in half. "This here is a court order, Father, and this gives
me the permission." His voice now matched the priest's in vol-
ume.
"I'm talking God's law. Church and state are separate in this
country! You have no right to be here!" He pointed his thick
finger at Pinky's bulging stomach.
Rena put her hand on the priest's shoulder and led him away
from the aggravated sheriff. He was a small man, and she had to
look down at his bald head when she spoke. "Father, I don't
218

believe this to be a violation of anyone's rights. William Tyrone
McKinney did not exist. I don't think that whatever is buried in
this grave is Christian, let alone human."
Stunned, he looked up at her. "What are you saying?"
"Peter and Clair McKinney never had twins. They only had
a daughter, and she's very much alive."
"Very sad. I know about her and what she's been doing," he
said, shaking his head.
"Were you the parish priest when Clair McKinney died?'' she
asked.
"No. Father O'Connell was. He passed away about twelve
years ago."
"He must have kept records of who he buried."
"Of course. They're in the office."
"Would you please look at these records and see if Clair Mc-
Kinney and William Tyrone were buried on the same day."
"They must have," he said. "They died on the same day.
Look at the dates on the stones."
"I'll tell you what. I'll ask Sheriff Swangel to discontinue the
digging until after you've had a good look at the records."
The priest thought about it for a second, then nodded. He
turned and walked back to his parish.
"What did you say to him?" Pinky asked her when she re-
turned to the grave site. He looked exasperated.
"That you'll stop digging if the services and the burials of
Clair and William McKinney were held on the same day." She
took a sip of her coffee.
"You can't do that!"
She patted his chest to calm him down. "Trust me. They were
not buried together. Besides, you don't want your soul to rot in
hell like the priest threatened, do you?"
"Shit! I'm half-Baptist, half-Mormon. I'm guaranteed to rot
in hell." He held up his hand to the other policemen, telling
them to stop digging.
Rena sat down on top of an old gravestone, drank her coffee,
and waited for the priest to return.
In a few minutes she saw the old man leave the rectory and
scurry toward them, his long black gown dragging on the leaf-
ridden path. He was holding a tattered ledger under his arm.
When he arrived at the grave, he opened up the thick book, wet
his thumb, and quickly turned the pages until he came to the one
he wanted. "You're right!" he said to Rena, thrusting the book
219

in her direction to look at. "William Tyrone McKinney was bur-
ied on December twentieth, Nineteen fifty-nine. That's two years
after the date on the stone. How can that be if he died on the
same day as his mother?" With his brow creased in confusion,
he turned first to Pinky then back to her.
"There is no William McKinney," Rena stated again.
"So you told me before. Then who in Jesus' name is down
there?" The priest nervously brushed imaginary hairs away from
his bald head.
"Perhaps no one. But as long as there is some form of mis-
representation, then the burial can't be sanctified. Wouldn't you
agree?"
He thought about it for a long moment, sighed, and eventually
nodded his head in accord. Within seconds the policemen were
back digging.
"How could Father O'Connell allow such a thing?" the priest
asked, mostly to himself.
They moved out of the way from the projectiles of dirt that
were flung out of the grave by the diggers.' 'Did Peter McKinney
and Father O'Connell know each other?" Rena asked him.
"They were supposed to have been very good friends. Both
of them came from Dublin. Father O'Connell had a small drink-
ing problem. The story I heard was that McKinney would often
come over to the rectory to visit Father O'Connell at night. The
two of them supposedly downed many a good bottle of Irish
whiskey together over the years."
"Was it possible that Father O'Connell did his good friend
and drinking partner a favor by allowing him to plant something
in the ground next to his wife?" she asked.
"Possible, but unlikely. If that gravestone is a lie, then it's a
sacrilege for it to be on hallowed ground. Father O'Connell knew
that."
"Yes, but Peter McKinney was his good friend. What's one
little lie among fighters of the Crown. I remember hearing stories
about how priests in Ireland would help IRA combatants by hid-
ing weapons in fake graves."
"This isn't Ireland," he said sternly.
Rena was about to say something clever, like how you can
take the man out of Ireland but you can't take Ireland out of the
man, when she heard one of the shovels down in the grave hit
something hard.
"Bingo!" Pinky said.
220

The priest and Rena went over to the hole and peered in. One
of the policemen was down on his knees brushing away the dirt
from a two-foot-square pine box. When he tried lifting it, the
rotted wood broke away in his hands. The other officer carefully
dug around it until the object was completely freed. Slowly both
men lifted the box out of the grave and handed it to Pinky and
the uniformed officer that was with him. Before they had a chance
to put it on the ground, the box crumpled, and something
wrapped in a thick woolen shawl dropped out. Pinky bent down
to touch the material, and it came apart in his hands.
Rena bent down next to him and painstakingly ripped away at
the decayed fabric.
'' This sure as hell isn't a body,'' Pinky said. The dank-smelling
pieces of wool clung fast to his hands as he tried brushing them
away.
Rena continued to claw through the layers until she felt some-
thing damp and leathery. A few more yanks and then she saw it:
it was a book held together by three strips of rawhide. The pages
were made of thick parchment. A sick feeling came over her as
she slowly opened the book. Age and dampness had destroyed
some of the pages, but most of them were still legible. Around
the edges were burn marks.
"What is it?" Pinky asked.
The words were neatly scripted, as if written with a quill.
"It's not English," Pinky said.
"No," Rena replied. Sweat had broken out around her lips.
"It's French. This is the original diary of the Baron Gustave de
Montret."
"Who is that?" the priest asked.
Rena said, "A man who has absolutely no business being
buried in hallowed ground, Father." She turned the pages over
until she came to what she hoped was there: the last segment of
the diary. It was there! The last entry was dated on the twenty-
third of December, Seventeen ninety-three.
With Pinky's permission, Rena took the diary with her to the
chateau so she could translate it. Before she drove back, she
suggested that Pinky call the FBI and tell them about the journal.
Begrudgingly he agreed.
As she pulled up to the house and got out of the Rover, she
could smell the aromatic odor of fermenting wine coming from
221

the oak-and-steel vats in her father's winery. The harvesting had
come to an end, and hopefully, so had the killings.
In the kitchen she found a half pot of coffee brewing on
the Krupps machine. Harrison must have already been here, she
thought. She poured herself a mug and took it along with the
journal into the den. Sitting down at the desk, she grabbed a
legal-sized yellow pad and a pen from the drawer. Opening the
diary slowly so the tattered parchment wouldn't break apart, she
turned to the last entry. Thankfully the dampness hadn't affected
the legibility of the script. The burns around the edges she sus-
pected were caused when McKinney had tossed the journal into
the furnace aboard the English ship after he and Striker were
rescued in France.
This was the entry that Wilbur Striker hated most, she remem-
bered. Taking a deep breath, she brought the pad closer to her
and began the slow task of translating.
Two hours later she was finished. As she looked up from the
pad, she caught a glimpse of herself in the gilded mirror on the
wall, and she was shocked at the drained, pallid color of her
skin.
You're right Striker, this was the most horrible entry of them
all!
23 December, 1793
They are coming for me. I can see them from my bedroom
window. They are like hordes of locusts racing across my beau-
tiful vineyards, screaming for my blood, begging to rip my soul
out from within me. Let them come, I am ready.
Brutes! Wretched, filthy creatures all of them! They toil all day
in their small fields that are no bigger than bread crumbs, then
they go back to their hovels to fornicate with their beastly, fat
wives so that they can turn out little gargoyle versions of them-
selves. How pointless they are! To be content to live in such
squalor. When they smile, their rotting teeth and disease-infested
gums sicken my stomach. When they look at you, it is through
dull, ignorant eyes. They stink from sweat and hay and putrid
gruel and cheap wine. It is these vile, insignificant cretins who
are coming to kill me. Me!
Yet I willingly give myself up to them. I am like Jesus who is
to be sacrificed on the cross so that these lowly vermin will feel
sanctified. Did our Lord not give his life for those Jewish ogres
and forgive them when they tortured his beautiful, slim body?
222

Oh, my Jesus! You would have made such a wonderful sacri-
fice for my vineyards. My vines would have licked and sucked
and feasted upon your blood and the fruits from within your
loins. They would have thanked you and bowed down to you.
They never would have laughed and stoned you like those Jewish
swine! I can almost hear the joyous laughter of my vineyards as
I write this. They would have loved to have partaken of your
body. Ah, the superb wines your flesh would have made! Only
then can it truly be said that we drink of your blood!
They are coming closer to my chateau. I hear voices crying
out for my death!
I take my clothes off and wait for them. Let them see me now,
I don't care. My breasts, once supple and soft as goose-feather
pillows, now droop down my hairy chest like half-filled sacks of
onions. My cock, once so hard and wanting, hangs dead and
shriveled between my legs. My cunt used to be wet and full-
flowing like the Seine. Now . . . now it is only a dried-up brook,
a crack in the hard ground, withering away beneath the hot des-
ert sun. My body is dead, so take me now you wretched sots!
Now, on the day of my death, 1 suddenly begin to think of you,
Papa. I am thinking about the beatings and humiliation you in-
flicted upon me, and my screams as I cried out for you to stop. I
remember how you would laugh and beat me harder the more I
begged. But it was the sting from your words that hurt me more
than your riding crop. You said 1 was a creature from the pits of
hell, a monstrosity of nature. You wished that I were born dead!
Mother pleaded with you to cease torturing me, but you paid her
no heed. I was a woman, Father, that was my preference. But
you would not hear of it. No! A man was to run your vineyards,
only a man! I became a man for you, Father, because your other
son, Rene, ran away to Burgundy. He also hated you. I was the
only heir left to run your vineyards. But I could have become
anything, Papa, if I wanted. Anything! For I am the creation of
Aphrodite and Hermes. I am androgynous. I have the soul of
both man and woman!
How you hated, dear Father, when I would ride off across the
fields to Comte Henri Maureau's chateau. He was your rival. His
wines were so much better than yours, and you despised him for
it. How it thrilled my heart to know that you were watching me.
I would beat my horse, making him go faster toward Henri's
vineyards. He was the only man who ever loved me. So kind and
gentle. He never saw me as a monstrosity. My naked body was
223

revered by him. Ah, the look of love that came over his face when
he touched me all over. How he adored fondling my breasts, my
cock! It was he who taught me the secrets of the Oschophoria. I
was fifteen when he first let me go on the hunt with him. It was
during the harvesting of the Pomerol. We found a trollop in town,
and we took her back with us to Henri's stable. I looked on
breathlessly as he took her from behind and banged his cock deep
into her, pushing her head down into the straw with one hand
while holding the spike to her neck with the other. Then I watched
in awe as he sliced out her organs and buried them in the vine-
yards. It was all done so quickly and so rakishly. Henri was an
artist, Papa! And his wines—they were so much better than yours
because of it.
My life died the day he fought a duel with you and lost. Bas-
tard! Your rapier found his beautiful heart! You murdered him,
Father, because you knew he loved me. How you hated that! You
could not stand the thought of anyone loving me. Even though
you killed him, you could not kill my memory of him and what
he taught me. I waited a year after his demise, and then I poi-
soned you. I doled out the oleander in small doses and made
sure you died a slow, painful death. When you finally made the
journey to hell, Papa, the vineyards became all mine!
Wait! What is that I smell? It is smoke!
Dear Jesus! Look what those paupers are doing! They are
burning my fields. Stop! Stop! Oh, Lord, the shrieks of agony
coming from my vines! Their pitiful cries cut deep into my soul.
I fall to the floor and cover my ears. Bastards! Bastards! I scream.
Take me instead! Take me!
Oh, Papa, I wish you were here to see this day! To watch you
cry out in pain as they murder your vineyards. To hear your
screams instead of theirs!
Their voices are horrible now! They are begging me to help
them. My beautiful ones, please understand. You will only feel
pain for a short time, then you will see and know nothing but
sweet darkness. Soon I will join you. No longer will I be trapped
inside a cursed body that only Henri and the ancient gods can
love.
I hear them breaking down my door. Their squirrel-like foot-
steps will soon make their way down into my wine cellar and then
up here to look for me. I must stop writing and hide the journal
in a false wall I built in my bedroom. Perhaps it will be found
someday, perhaps not. It matters not, my brave, magnificent
224

vineyards. What matters is that we shall soon be together for all
eternity!
This last entry was like a cracked mirror into Maura's tortured
soul. Now at last Rena understood the hold that de Montret had
on her friend. They were genetically linked together—something
that science didn't think was possible. She also understood what
the baron meant when he wrote that he was both hard and wet at
the same time.
She refilled her coffee mug then went over to the giant, arched
French window. She sat down on the sill and looked out. The
sky was darkening and the pregnant clouds seemed to be ready
to unleash a barrage of thunder and rain over the valley.
Yes, part of the bond between Maura and the baron had to do
with being double-sexed, she thought. But there was something
more, something much deeper, and yet something very univer-
sal. It had to do with the fear of being different and the loneliness
that follows. There were many similarities between them: both
were loved for themselves by one man. When they died, they
found themselves alone again. To taste the light of happiness and
then to have to go back into the solitary darkness again must have
made both of them very bitter.
She and the baron were also forced to hide their true sexual
needs. Maura and her ancestor had the unique choice of either
becoming a man or a woman. The baron, even though his nature
pushed him toward the feminine side, was coerced into taking
the role of a man because of his father. Maura was more fortunate
than Gustave in the fact that she was allowed to follow her natural
instincts and become a woman. However, she was suppressed
sexually by Peter McKinney's fears that her true identity would
be discovered. That's why he hated Martin so much and forbid
Maura to see him.
The deepest comparison, Rena noticed, was the way their
fathers treated them. Both men withheld the one thing their chil-
dren needed desperately: love. Even though Maura was not
beaten physically like the baron, she was abused mentally by a
cold, sullen, withdrawn man. McKinney blamed Maura for the
death of his wife. He also wanted a son. Frawley must have
explained chimerism to him; that he almost had a son but the
fertilized egg that was to be Maura had destroyed it. A closed-
off, simple man like McKinney could never have understood the
medical complexity of this theory. All his drunken mind could
225

grasp was that Maura not only murdered his wife but his male
heir as well. It became a no-win situation: he drank to stem his
anger of her, and the more he drank, the angrier he became.
Why did he bury the diary next to his wife's grave? Why didn't
he just destroy it? Perhaps his anger had also spread to Clair. It
was her genes that were causing all this misery in his life. On
one of his drunken binges he probably talked Father O'Connell
into burying the diary next to her and then having a gravestone
with the date of his imaginary son's death chiseled onto it. It was
a way of him washing his hands of the de Montret family.
Yet he kept Wilbur Striker's translation. He could have buried
it along with the original but chose not to. As much as he may
have wanted to forget Clair and the misery she had brought to
him, he still wanted a piece of her next to him. McKinney's soul
must have been torn apart with pain.
Then she thought of the baron. He had the madness of the
Oschophoria to use as a substitute for love. But what did Maura
have? Her art? Her work? Was that enough? Rena doubted it.
What real substitution could there possibly be for love?
Yet Maura was not the baron. Their bloodline may have sprung
from the same river, but their tributaries flowed in different di-
rections. She was an extremely strong and intelligent woman
who was outgoing and happy when Martin was alive. Unlike the
baron, her mind was not satiated with hate. De Montret became
a part of that ancient, sacrificial feast as a way of revenge against
his father and a society that would have condemned his abnor-
mality. He was not unlike the followers of Charles Manson and
other weak, misguided souls who belonged to murderous cults
in our present-day civilization.
She believed Maura was stronger than that. What she had done
in the vineyards went against everything Rena had learned about
human nature. Why would Maura suddenly follow in her ances-
tor's footsteps? What set her off on this murderous, bloody ram-
page?
Wait a minute! Suddenly Rena stood up and put the coffee
mug down on the sill. Maybe her mistake all along with these
murders was in looking for the "what" in Maura.
What was that "thing" inside her that made her kill?
No, that's wrong!
Perhaps it's not whatl
If not what, then . . . ?
Who?
226

Yes, who\
Yes!
The clouds opened and the rains came down hard on the fer-
tile, green valley of Napa.
No, this is crazy! Why would anyone . . . wait, who knew
about Maura's affliction? Martin. . . Peter McKinney. . .Fraw-
ley. They're all dead. There had to be someone else. But why
would that someone want to do this to her, and how was he or
she doing it?
"Hold on a sec! Yes, there certainly was someone else who
knew abbut her. In fact, more like several someone elses!'' Rena
said out loud. She went over to the phone and dialed the operator.
When she picked up, Rena said, "Can you please give me the
area code for Tacoma, Washington . . . Thank you.'' After hang-
ing up, she dialed area code 206, then information. "Operator,
I'd like the telephone number of Riverside Hospital in Tacoma,
please. Yes, I'll wait."
Chapter Twenty-seven
_T
he rain had been coming down heavily for hours now with-
out any sign of letup. The Vegas Strip was flooded. Stalled
cars were abandoned in the middle of the boulevard; sewers were
backed up and torrents of water overflowed from the gutters and
onto the sidewalk, seeping under the doors of the major casinos.
Janitors worked feverishly trying to swab up the saturated red
carpets. They squeezed their wet mops quietly into metal pails,
trying not to disrupt the hitters at the blackjack tables and the
robotic old ladies cranking down on the handles of slot machines.
The Las Vegas Free Clinic was located a few blocks off the
strip on Eastern Boulevard. Since the city's fathers considered
the homeless and the destitute eyesores and refused to let them
take up residence in Vegas, the clinic's clientele were comprised
227

mostly of hookers with venereal diseases and UNLV coeds being
fitted for diaphragms.
On most afternoons the reception area was "standing room
only," and there was at least an hour-and-a-half wait before a
doctor could get free to see a patient. Today, because of the raging
downpour, there were only two people waiting to receive medical
attention: a black hooker and a strung-out, male college student
with a long ponytail. The girl wore a pink-colored, curly wig and
a tight red miniskirt. She was leafing through a magazine with her
feet propped up on the coffee table. A pink wad of Bazooka bubble
gum would occasionally balloon from her mouth then splatter
across her lips before being sucked back in again. On the couch
near the bathroom, the boy with the ponytail was rocking back
and forth, silently mouthing the lyrics to an Iron Maiden song. He
was coming down from a long weekend of crack.
Most of the staff had been told to go home earlier in the day.
Maijorie Porter, a hefty, honey-skinned black woman was the
only nurse on duty. She was sitting behind the reception desk
reading this week's People when the door opened. A woman
entered carrying a tote bag and wearing dark glasses. Her skin
was as pale as sea salt. She looked weak and stooped over, and
she was drenched to the bone. Steadying herself by keeping one
hand on the wall, she slowly inched over to the desk.
Maijorie looked up from the article about Cher's new flame
and over to the woman with the dark glasses. She'd been a nurse
too long not to see that something was wrong with her. "You all
right, honey? You need to sit down?" she said, closing the mag-
azine.
Maura opened her mouth to say something but only faint,
unintelligible words came out. "Fever . . . cold . . . can't stop
shaking." She was shivering uncontrollably. Suddenly her knees
buckled and she started to sink to the floor. Lying there with her
back propped up against the desk, she could hear hurried, muf-
fled footsteps, then the crinkling sound of Nurse Maijorie's
starched white dress as she bent down next to her. From some-
where in the distance Maijorie's voice was yelling, "Dr. Barney,
quick! We got a live one here!" Her mind was starting to fade.
She shook her head, fighting it. No, mustn't pass out! Can't!
Can't!
Two sets of strong hands grabbed her under the arms and lifted
her up; then the feel of leather as her body was hoisted down on
a wheelchair. There was the sensation of the chair moving, the
228

sound of swinging doors opening then closing, the odor of ethyl
alcohol, iodine, ammonia. The swish of curtains being opened.
The hands again, this time lifting her off the chair and onto a soft
mattress covered with a stiff, sterile-smelling sheet. The feel of
someone removing the cardigan sweater from her body. Fingers
on her chest quickly unbuttoning her blouse. Then the sound of
her own voice screaming: "No! No!" The hands moved away
from her chest.
Again, from a distance, she could hear the nurse saying,
"You're sick, honey, and you're wet and cold. I got to get these
clothes off of you or you're gonna catch pneumonia, that is if you
haven't already."
"I'll do it myself," Maura said, barely audible. Her voice
sounded like it was coming from deep underwater. She was still
shivering.
"That's fine with me, but I don't think you can."
Maura felt her sunglasses being removed by the nurse. She
quickly covered her eyes with her arm.
"The light bothering you?"
"Yes," Maura said.
"You a hype, honey?"
"No."
"Lights bother hypes."
"I'm not a hype." The nurse gave her back the glasses and
Maura kept her eyes closed until she could put them back on. It
seemed like a fog was coating her vision. The light-headed feel-
ing soon began to subside. When her sight cleared, she saw a
nurse and a handsome young doctor staring down at her.
"You still want to change into this gown by yourself?" the
doctor asked her. His voice was gentle.
"Yes." Her teeth were knocking loudly against each other.
"You're the shy type, huh?" the nurse said skeptically.
"Yeah," Maura replied.
Before they left, Maijorie closed the circular curtains around
the gurney. Fighting off the dizziness, Maura slowly stood up,
leaned against the mattress, and took off her soaked clothes. She
let the garments drop heavily to the floor.
She didn't want to be here, but she had no choice if she was
going to make it to Los Angeles. The two harrowing bus trips,
one to Salt Lake City and the other to Vegas, had taken their toll.
Her fever was up and aspirins were no longer helping. The in-
fection was sapping the strength from her body. She had to take
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the chance and get help or she would either find herself in a prison
hospital or dead.
Keeping her underwear on, she changed into the dressing
gown. A minute later Nurse Maijorie poked her head between
the curtains and asked if she was ready. Maura nodded weakly
as she sat back down in the chair.
"Let's get you to drier quarters," she said, wheeling Maura
toward an empty cubicle. Inside, the nurse helped her up on the
cot and put a thermometer in her mouth.
A few minutes later the handsome doctor came in. His hair
was long and curly, and he wore a gold stud in his left ear. He
smiled at her, then took the thermometer out of her mouth. His
smile faded. "A hundred and two. What the hell were you doing
out in the rain with a hundred-and-two fever?"
Maura had her story prepared. She had purposely sliced open
her arm with a scissor a few hours before coming to the clinic.
Weakly, she pulled up the right sleeve of her dressing gown part-
way. There was a thick piece of gauze on her arm held together
by tape. "I cut myself on a rusty can a couple of days ago. I
think I'm infected."
The doctor ripped off the tape and examined the wound. It
was a semi-deep slice. "It doesn't look infected. In fact, the
wound doesn't look two days old," he said suspiciously. "What's
the real story? Are you doing drugs?"
"I told you . . ."
"Give me a break on that one. Are you using?"
"Okay, yes." That was her backup in case the first story failed.
"You told the nurse you didn't."
"I lied. Wouldn't you?" she answered, annoyed.
He pushed up the sleeves on both her arms. "Jesus Christ!"
he uttered when he saw the scrapes and bruises on her pale skin.
"What the hell happened?"
"Nothing!" she said angrily.
"Were you in a fight, or did you do this to yourself?"
She looked away, not answering.
"Okay, be that way," he said, shaking his head. He ran his
fingers lightly over the inside of her arms. "Where're the needle
marks?" As he was about to move his hands away, Maura
grabbed his arm and held it tight. ' 'Hey, you're strong.'' He tried
to release her grip with his other hand, but she held firm.
"Look, even a fucking kid in kindergarten can see that I'm
230

infected," she said vehemendy, through clenched teeth. "I need
antibiotics!"
The door opened and Nurse Maijorie walked in. When she
saw what was happening, she crossed her arms over her big
bosom and frowned. "Try not to break his hand, okay? He's the
only doctor we got right now."
Maura let go.
"You got a name?" she asked sternly.
Maura didn't answer.
She picked up a clipboard from the table. "Then how about a
first name so I don't have to write you down as a Roman nu-
meral."
"Nancy," Maura said.
"Like in Reagan."
"That's right."
"How's Ronnie and the kids?"
"Goddamn it!" Maura screamed, looking up at the ceiling as
she grasped the sheets in her fisted hands.
"You a prostitute, honey?" Maijorie asked.
"Sure."
"And a user?"
"They usually go hand-in-hand, right?"
"You also lie like this all the time?"
The doctor peered down at her. "Okay, Nancy, or whatever
your name is, are you allergic to penicillin?"
"Yes."
"Erythromycin?"
"No."
The doctor looked into Nurse Maijorie's tired, veteran eyes.
"Get an IV ready with 500 milligrams of erythromycin. I also
want to do a blood test." The nurse nodded, glanced down at
Maura one more time, then walked out. The doctor bent over
Maura and tried taking her glasses off, but she moved her head
away. "Look, you've got a hundred-and-two fever, you're shiv-
ering, and you're sweating like you spent the last five hours in a
sauna. Another day without help, and you'll be in an intensive
care unit in some hospital fighting for your life. I've got to check
you out."
Maura took a deep breath then removed her sunglasses. She
turned and stared directly into his eyes.
There was a brief register of shock on his face, then his ex-
pression became immobile again. "Irideal heterochromia," he
231

said. "I've never seen a case as radical as yours. Most people
with that symptom have blue-green eyes."
"Perhaps I should be put into a sideshow at the circus," she
said bitterly.
"We certainly share different opinions about that. I think
they're quite lovely ... in fact, even exotic."
His eyes were warm and playful as they looked directly down
on her face. With the fever racing through her brain, she felt for
a second as if she were back in the Napa Valley again, laughing
and running through the hills with Martin. Then the moment
passed. She remembered where she was and what she had done.
Her expression hardened, and she looked away from him.
"There are rings around your eyes," he said. "When was the
last time you slept?"
Sleep! Dear, sweet sleep! To sleep . . . perchance to dream.
No, no! Never again! "I don't remember," she finally answered.
Nurse Marjorie came back into the cubicle bringing an IV
setup with her. She, too, looked at Maura's eyes for a moment,
then she glanced down at her purplish, bruised arms.' 'They look
like a war zone. I guess we won't have no trouble finding a vein.
Your skin is like milk-colored glass," she said as she expertly
pushed the needle into the blue vein in her hand. When she was
sure the IV was flowing properly, she tore off the plastic coating
from a syringe and took a sample of her blood from the other
arm. After she left with the specimen, the doctor put a stetho-
scope around his neck and told her to remove the top part of her
gown. Hesitant at first, she finally sat up and let the gown fall
from her shoulders. Her breasts were firm and smooth like por-
celain. She shuddered when she felt the metal part of the steth-
oscope on her skin.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"No one." She was shivering again.
"Put your top on." When she did, he covered her with a
blanket. "Look, I'm not going to call the cops. We don't work
that way around here. I think you knew that or you would have
gone to the emergency room at University Medical Center."
"I knew that," she said quietly.
"Okay, so tell me who you are."
The fever was now playing tricks in her head, and without
thinking she said softly, "Maura . . . Maura Bynum." Martin's
last name. Why not? He was dead, but my spirit will always be
wed to him, she thought, with a smile.
232

"All right, Maura Bynum it is. I guess it beats Nancy Rea-
gan." He wrote it down on his clipboard. "I'd like to do a full
physical on you. I want to see where this infection is coming
from."
"No," she said ardently, her hands instinctively going down
near the area of her covered groin.
Smiling, he said, "Okay. Let's take it step-by-step first. I'm
going to keep you here for a few hours feeding you intravenously.
Let's see if the erythromycin helps get your fever down. If not,
I'm going to call an ambulance to take you to University Medi-
cal."
She nodded. At least this gives me a few hours, she thought.
He squeezed her hand reassuringly, then said,' 'There are more
patients waiting for me. I'm the only doctor on call. Get some
sleep. I'll come back in a while to see how you are."
How warm his hand was when he touched me. It had been so
long since she let a man near her. Oh, God, Martin, help me
please! She shook her head to get rid of the thoughts. She had to
use her energy to find Rena, not on fantasizing about what could
have been if she had been born normal. Then she thought about
the only alternative left to her now. Death was her only salvation,
she knew that. But she didn't want to die alone. Not alone! She
had been alone for so much of her life. To die next to someone
she loved, with that person holding her as the breath of life slipped
from her body. That's all she wanted now. It would be so easy
with the Placidyls. Rena would understand, wouldn't she?
The fever was raging through her body.
They would sit on the bed together, talking and giggling, just
like they did when they were children. Then, when she began to
feel drowsy, she'd lay her head on Rena's lap and hunch up into
a fetal position. Rena would gently rock her, whispering soothing
words in her ear until her eyes closed and the black nothingness
descended over her for eternity.
For eternity!
Maura suddenly opened her eyes. She was beginning to fall
asleep. No, mustn't do that! Sleep brings on the other thing. 1
begin to kill. Something inside me makes me kill. . . wants me
to kill. Christ, what is happening to me!
Then she remembered the name she had given the doctor.
What a fool I was for doing that! She hoped he wouldn't put the
name and who she really was together. Suddenly she thought
about her pills, and she quickly sat up. Had they taken her pills?
233

Her eyes darted around the small cubicle until she saw her tote
hanging from the back of the chair next to her. Pushing the IV
stand to the side, she grabbed the bag and tossed everything out
on the cot. All the pills were there, including the Placidyls. Thank
God! Her strength zapped, she lay back down again and waited
for the good doctor to return with another dose of antibiotics.
Five hours later she glanced up at the third plastic bag of
erythromycin that she received and saw that it was half-empty.
She then looked at the clock on the wall: it was eight-fifteen.
The bus to L.A. left at nine o'clock. There was no time to wait
until the last one was finished. Maura ripped the needle from her
hand and got up off the cot. She felt weak, but she was no longer
shivering. That meant the fever had subsided. A good sign.
Thankfully Nurse Maijorie, before she went home for the eve-
ning, had brought her a turkey sandwich and made her eat it. She
quickly dressed in the black skirt and white sweater she wore in
Boise then poked her head outside the door. The doctor and the
night nurse were busy in another cubicle with a sick patient. She
quietly made her way down the hallway to the waiting room. It
was now filled with people. A small boy with a desperate, hack-
ing cough was sitting on his mother's lap. His sad, watery eyes
watched Maura as she took the nurse's umbrella from beneath
her desk, opened the door, and went out into the rainy night.
In a few minutes she was on the strip where cabs were plen-
tiful . She hailed one and told him to take her to the bus terminal.
At nine-fifteen the bus left the bright lights of Vegas behind
and headed west toward Route 15. Most of the passengers were
senior citizens who had spent the day at the slot machines and
were now heading back to their homes in Los Angeles.
Maura sat in the back, away from everybody. Her heart was
racing from expectation. Tomorrow she would be with Rena.
The methodical drone of the wheels on the smooth, paved road
made her eyelids heavy. Images of her seventeenth birthday
jumped around in her head. She was in her father's winery. Mar-
tin was also there. They were naked. He was on top of her . . .
then inside her. Both of them were writhing on the ground, obliv-
ious to anything but the glorious, slapping sensation their bodies
were making as they lay entwined together.
Then they were holding hands, racing through the vineyards
back to his house. His parents weren't home. They made love
again, this time in his bed. Afterward, she began to nod out to
Roberta Flack on Martin's stereo.
234

There was the moving sensation of Martin's body getting up
from the bed. The door to his bedroom opening. Sounds, like
footsteps in the hallway. Another door opening. Then the sound
of ... of what? The sound of . . . the sound of metal. Yes. A
metal sound. A sliding, metal sound. Metal upon metal. Then
. . . then a sound like no other sound. A sound like the deep roar
of thunder. A sound so loud and so final that her organs shook
inside her body. She opened her eyes and jumped up. Where is
Martin? Was there an explosion at the winery? She saw the bed-
room door ajar. Getting out of bed, she called for Martin. No
answer. Then she was out in the hallway, again calling his name.
The door to Martin's parents room was open. She walked in. All
the drawers of the bureau were pulled out. Clothes were thrown
indiscriminately over the floor. Why were the walls all red? Sud-
denly she yelled in pain. She had stepped on something sharp.
Sitting down on his parents bed, she picked up her leg to look.
It was a small fragment of bone embedded in the sole of her foot.
When she glanced down, she saw that there were small pieces of
bloody bones all over the floor. What were they doing in here?
Martin didn't have a dog. Then she heard sounds coming from
outside the room—footsteps racing down the stairs ... the front
door opening, then slamming shut. . . footsteps again, this time
running down the pebble path outside the house. She got up and
hobbled over to the window to look out. As she stood there she
could feel something warm and wet on the carpet. Outside, she
saw for a brief second the shadowy shape of someone rushing
into the forest, then it was gone. Her foot hurt. It was when she
reached down to pull the sliver out that she first saw Martin. He
was lying in a twisted position on the floor. Much of his face
was missing. She knew it was him because he was wearing the
leather wristband that she had made for him. Looking down, she
realized the warm wetness she felt on her feet was from her
standing in his blood. She screamed again, this time not from
the pain of the sharp bone, but from the pain of knowing Martin
was dead.
The snores of the senior citizens were the only sounds break-
ing up the steady hum of the bus's motor. There was another
noise, except this one was in Maura's head: metal scratching
against metal. This time, though, it sounded distant, coming
from somewhere far off.
Then Maura did something she prayed she wouldn't do before
she got to see Rena: she fell into a deep, sound sleep.
235

Chapter Twenty-eight
_S
ometime during the night the torrential rain had eased to
a steady trickle, and by dawn it had finally come to a com-
plete stop. By the time the sun had risen over Boulder Dam, the
Nevada desert was steaming hot. Only a few hours ago the strip
was like a frenzied river; now the boulevard was dried up, and
traffic flowed smoothly, as if nothing happened.
Nurse Maijorie and Dr. Barney sat in the FBI office across
from the Sands Hotel staring at a three-foot copy of Maura's
unsmiling face pinned to the corkboard. It was a blowup of the
photograph that was on her assistant district attorney's license.
Next to it was a sketch done by a forensic artist of the woman
they saw at the clinic last night. Grant and three other agents
stood in back of their chairs. The room was littered with coffee-
stained Styrofoam cups, and the rancid smell of nervous, tired
men filled the air.
"They're one and the same," Maijorie said, nodding as if
there was no doubt in her mind. She turned to look at agent
Grant.
"And you, sir?" Grant said, standing behind the doctor.
Barney didn't say anything. He just stared at Maura's picture
with tired, sad eyes. Finally he nodded. "That's her," he whis-
pered.
"I wish I had bothered to look at the notice you fellows sent
to us about her," Maijorie said. "If I had, then I would have
called you while she was still there. We get tons of flyers from
police departments all over the country, mostly looking for run-
aways. After a while we just let them pile up and forget about
them. I could see the way she acted last night that she was a little
out of it, but I sure didn't know she was that crazy killer."
Grant nodded. He was staring at the drawing. Other than the
236

similarity between the thin lips and small nose, the two pictures
looked like two different people. The photo showed Maura's
static, long blond hair combed straight back in a sophisticated,
conservative style. In the artist's sketch, the hair was dark with
bangs and cut jaggedly above the neck.
"I don't know if they're the same two women," a tall, lanky
agent with a gap between his teeth said, shaking his head doubt-
fully.
"Well, I do know, honey," Nurse Maijorie said caustically.
She folded her arms and glared at the Federal agent over her
bifocals. "That is definitely her! I know what I saw! The com-
posite you sent to the clinic said she had a brown eye and a blue
eye. Tell me, Sherlock, how many people do you know that's got
one brown and one blue eye?"
"It's her," the doctor said again. He let out a sigh and rubbed
his eyes. "She said her name was Maura By num."
Grant could see that the doctor liked her. He said, "Maura is
her real first name and Bynum was the name of her dead lover.''
Then he added, "Did you examine her without her clothes on,
Doctor?"
Barney looked at him strangely. "No, it never got to that point.
Why?"
Ignoring him, Grant put the same question to Maijorie.
She also answered no.
Dr. Barney stood up. "Look, I"ve got to get back to the clinic.
Is there anything else you need from us?" he asked sullenly.
"I don't think so, Doctor. Thanks for your help."
Barney and Maijorie left.
Grant waited until the door closed before he turned back to
his agents. "All right fellows, listen to this," Grant said, clap-
ping his hands together. "A bus driver for Trail ways identified
this composite drawing as a woman who got into Las Vegas
yesterday morning around nine o'clock from Salt Lake City."
Grant went over to a large map of the United States that was
pinned to the wall. He drew a line with a blue-marking pen from
Boise to Salt Lake City, then one from there to Las Vegas. ' 'This
is the route she took."
A pot-bellied officer with a five-o'clock shadow covering his
face said, "That doesn't make sense. Who does she know in
those cities?" He leaned against the desk and folded his arms.
"Maybe she doesn't know anyone," Grant responded quietly.
237

"We could dragnet this town, turn it upside down," the lanky
agent said.
Grant didn't reply. He stared a long time at the map. Finally
he said, "I think I'm beginning to get a handle on this woman/
man, or whatever the hell she is. I think she's been taking these
out-of-the-way routes to avoid detection."
"But why settle on Vegas? She'd stick out like a sore thumb
here," said the third agent, the youngest one.
"Maybe she hasn't settied here. Maybe this is just one more
stopover. According to Dr. Barney, she had an infection of some
sorts. It had to have been bad or she wouldn't have taken the
chance of going to a clinic." His finger slowly traced Route 40
across the width of the map to the East Coast. "I'd say the next
bus she's on goes east or west." Then his finger suddenly made
a U-turn, moved back across the country, and stopped in Los
Angeles. Tapping that area with his knuckle, he said, "Most
likely the West Coast. It would be too dangerous to go east all
that way by bus. It's one long haul, and she'd get caught sooner
or later."
"Who does she know in L.A.?" the chubby agent asked.
Grant looked at him and smiled for the first time in days. "An
old and dear friend." Turning back to the map, he put his finger
on Los Angeles and said, "Yep, that's where our lady killer is
going. I'd bet anything on it. The question is, once she's there,
does she start the slaughter all over again?"
238

Chapter Twenty-nine
_T
he rented white Porsche Carrera that Ray Scollari was
driving back to Los Angeles crept along Highway 10 at sixty
miles an hour. It was frustrating going this slow. He wanted to
go faster, like he did when he first left Desert Hot Springs, but
he couldn't chance getting another ticket, not after he was already
stopped once for speeding.
The cops in New York are a hell of a lot more human than the
ones in this fucking desert, he thought. There at least he could
take out his DA's shield and flash it in front of the officer's face.
The cop wouldn't dare bother him when he saw that. Out here
you could be the fucking mayor of the entire fucking city and
these blond robotlike assholes with their well-trimmed mus-
taches would still nail your butt.
Scollari looked over at the girl sitting next to him. She was
wearing a red tube top and tight black shorts that barely covered
the cheeks of her ass. He gave her tanned, smooth knee a soft
pat, and he suddenly began to get hard. He couldn't help it, he
got hard every time he looked at her. She was absolutely beau-
tiful; not swift, just beautiful. He met her at the hotel at the Hot
Springs where he went to relax for a few days. She was the
masseuse there, specializing in Swedish massages. Her name
was Rita, and for three great days she rubbed Scollari down until
his heavily oiled body was covered with big red welts. Rita was
very impressionable, and Ray impressed her a great deal with
stories about being the head of the prosecutor's office in Brook-
lyn. One morning, while lying prone on the massage table, he
casually mentioned to her that he was going to run for mayor of
New York. Rita giggled loudly and her eyes opened wide with
delight as she kneaded and pulled on his rubbery, thick skin. She
absolutely loved being around celebrities, even if she never heard
of them before. She showed Ray that she appreciated his noto-
241

riety by suddenly pulling the sheet off his body, putting her head
between his thighs, and sucking on his surprised, but already
hard, penis. It wasn't long before she made him forget whatever
business problems he was having back in New York.
In Brooklyn the justice system was "bottlenecked, and he had
found himself working sixty-hour weeks. That, plus the negative
statements the media was saying about him, had whittled his
nerves down to the bare bone. Shit! It wasn't his fault that his
assistant district attorney turned out to be a crazed serial killer.
Four days ago he left his wife and children back home in Queens
and took off across country for Hot Springs. He needed to mel-
low out, get his strength back, or he'd never last that long haul
of running for mayor. The good thing about taking this trip was
that the city of New York was paying for it without knowing it.
He was supposed to have a meeting tomorrow with the police
chief of Los Angeles to talk about the illicit flow of drugs be-
tween their two cities. Scollari made sure the meeting was well
publicized from coast to coast. He needed all the public relations
he could get if his mayoral candidacy was to be taken seriously.
Now if only those jerk-off Feds would find McKinney, his life
might get back to the way things were before. Christ, what a cunt
she'd been to him, he thought. Why the hell had he taken that
kind of garbage from her! Just to get laid? I hope when they find
her they blow her the fuck away. Why waste good money on a
trial? Unless she was found insane, it would take years to try her
because she crossed state lines to do her killings. If she was found
in my jurisdiction, Id make sure she wouldn't live to spend one
night in jail. The public would quickly forget, and then he could
go on with his life.
Scollari's thoughts were interrupted by Rita's hands trying to
unzip his pants. Ray laughed. "Here, darlin', let me help you."
Keeping one hand on the wheel, he used his other to fiddle with
the zipper until his organ jumped straight out like a jack-in-the-
box.
Yes, by God, he was hard!
Giggling, Rita pushed her hair back from her face, opened up
her big red lips, and plopped her mouth down on his joint.
Whoowie! He stepped on the gas pedal and popped the clutch
into fifth. "Fuck L.A. cops!" he screamed at the top of his
lungs. Within seconds the Porsche was soaring down Highway
10 doing eighty-five.
At three-thirty in the afternoon, the dust-covered white Porsche
242

pulled over to the curb on Avenue of the Stars in Century City.
Rita planted a wet kiss on Scollari's forehead, winked, and got
out. Ray drove alone the two blocks to the Century Plaza Hotel.
He got out of the car and waved to the bell captain. Within a
couple of minutes a bellhop was opening up the trunk of the
Porsche and putting Ray's matching black Lark bags on the dolly.
Scollari turned and saw Rita walking toward the entrance of the
hotel. Without saying anything to him, she licked her lips and
slipped quiedy up the steps to the hotel lobby. Grinning to him-
self, Ray stayed behind with the bellhop. It was an arrangement
he and Rita had made beforehand. Because of the media, too
many people knew he was in town and where he was staying.
He couldn't afford anyone finding out that he was here with a
woman; his chances of becoming mayor would be all but lost,
not to mention the city council becoming suspicious about his
expenditures. Plus his wife would nail him to the cross in court.
He knew from past experience how to have a few laughs and not
get caught. As planned, he and Rita would catch up with each
other in the elevator.
The Century Plaza was Scollari's favorite hotel in L.A. He
liked the modern curvature of the building and the large lobby
that always seemed to be bustiing with people. Hey, if Reagan
stayed here when he was president, then it's good enough for a
second-generation wop like me, he constantiy told his friends
back in New York.
The concierge behind the check-in counter knew him. He im-
mediately gave Ray a key and told him to register later on at his
convenience. As he made his way to the elevators, the bell cap-
tain and several of the other employees said hello to him. Smil-
ing, he nodded in return. He was obviously well-known at this
hotel, and Rita, holding the elevator door open for him, was in
awe of his popularity. When he stepped inside the elevator, she
first looked to make sure the bellhop wasn't watching, then
she leaned over and whispered something in his ear, touching the
hairy rim lightly with her tongue. She giggled. Laughing, Ray
gave her waist a squeeze as the door started to close. His mind
was jumping with all the things he was going to do with her once
they were alone in his suite.
She sat on a rust-colored couch at the end of the lobby and
watched the elevator doors close on the laughing couple. The
black leather miniskirt was now dirty and stained. Her eyes re-
243

mained fixed on the digital numbers above the door. She watched
intently until the numbers stopped changing and the fourteenth
floor stayed lit. She quickly stood up, went into an empty, wait-
ing elevator, and also pushed fourteen.
Seconds later, the copper doors opened on the fourteenth floor.
Down the hall, in a secluded wing, she could see the bellhop
opening the door for Scollari. The girl was standing several rooms
away, pretending to fumble with her keys. After the bellhop put
the bags in his room, Scollari gave him a ten-dollar bill, patted
him on the shoulder, and watched him go down on the service
elevator. Giggling, the girl tiptoed over to Ray, grabbed his
crotch, and led him inside his room. The door closed.
She went over to the emergency door that was a few feet away
from the room, opened it, and went in. Standing by the stairwell,
she put her ear to the door and listened.
Wait until I hear the shower, she thought, touching her tote
bag and feeling the weight of the steel hammer inside.
Scollari lay on the rumpled, greasy sheets in the bedroom of
his hotel suite, his naked body glistening with baby oil. He lay
there with his eyes closed and a contented smile plastered on his
face. From the bathroom he could hear the sound of the shower
running and Rita's voice singing "La Bamba" off-key.
What a killer she was! -That bitch could do things with her
body that he didn't think possible. Up until today he thought he
had done it all: from having sex under the covers with his frigid
wife to the Times Square hookers who gave twenty-five-dollar
blow jobs in alleys behind the garbage dumpsters. He once had
three girls at the same time; even picked up an occasional trans-
vestite when he got real drunk. None of them compared to Rita.
She was the best lay he had ever experienced. His whole body
ached.
Fucked my goddamn brains out!
She didn't expect anything from him—no money, no jewelry,
absolutely nothing. The only thing he had to do was whisper in
her ear the names of famous people he knew while he was fuck-
ing her. She went crazy every time he did that. Cuomo . . .
Quayle . . . those two niggers, Dinkins and Bradley. Today she
actually had an orgasm when he muttered Donald Trump. He
never met most of them, but she didn't have to know that.
Scollari was in the middle of devising a plan on how he could
244

take Rita back with him to New York when someone knocked
on the door. "Yeah, who is it?" he asked.
No answer.
"Who's there?" he said, sitting up.
More knocking.
"Shit!" he muttered, getting out of the bed. He wrapped a
towel around his flabby waist, went over to the door, and looked
out the peephole. He could see a brown eye staring at him from
the other side.
"What do you want?" he grunted.
No answer, just another knock.
Angry, Ray flung open the door.
The last thing he heard in the one split second that remained
of his life was Rita starting up another chorus of "La Bamba."
Chapter Thirty
_T
he over-sized blue van was parked a block away on the
other side of the street from Rena's house in Brentwood.
Inside the van the air was hot and smelled of partially-eaten
McDonald's cheeseburgers and perspiration. Grant and three
other officers were cramped together in the small quarters watch-
ing Rena's house with powerful binoculars. Four other agents
were sitting in an unmarked Ford only twenty feet away from
the house. TWo TV cable repairmen, also agents, were across the
street looking into a small manhole and pretending to fiddle with
the thick cable television wires. Up on the roofs of two residential
houses across the street, several snipers lying on their stomachs
were looking through the telescopic sights of their rifles, the
cross hairs aimed directly on Rena's front door and driveway.
In the blue van the agent with the gapped teeth wiped away
the sweat from his brow as he took the last bite of his Big Mac.
' 'You sure about this?'' he said to Grant. A drop of ketchup clung
to his chin.
245

"Yeah, I'm sure." He looked away from the binoculars and
rubbed his tired eyes. "She's got absolutely nowhere else to go."
"A cab's stopping off at the house," the other agent said ex-
citedly.
Grant looked through the binoculars again. He watched the
back door of the taxi open and a man holding a frayed leather
jacket, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, get out. The driver also
exited, then opened up his trunk and took out a suitcase.
' 'Who the flick is that?'' said Grant. He saw the agents dressed
as TV repairmen looking up from the hole at the man and asking
themselves the same question.
The stranger paid the driver, picked up the bag, and made his
way to the front door.
Grant quickly glanced up at the rooftops across the street. He
could see the rifle barrels aimed at the man. He leaned into the
microphone on the console and whispered to the S.W.A.T. team
on the roof, "Hold your position. Don't fire." His body was
tense. Who the fuck is he? He watched the guy ring the doorbell.
When no one answered, the stranger reached in his pocket for
something, perhaps a key—Grant couldn't be sure—and stuck it
in the lock. Suddenly Rena's daughter opened the door from the
inside and leaped up on his body, hugging and kissing him. The
man swung her around and brought her inside the house.
' 'Who is he? A boyfriend of the mother or something?'' Grant
asked once more. He sounded pissed.
"Oh, Christ! I know who he is," the agent with the gap teeth
said, shaking his head. "He's a reporter. I met him at a presi-
dential news conference in Washington last year when I was with
the secret service. He's supposed to have a reputation for being
in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"Well, he still has as far as I'm concerned. He was within a
hair's breadth from getting his balls blown away by the S.W.A.T.
boys," Grant said annoyed.
"Oh, Charlie," Cathy said exuberantly, still hanging from his
neck with her feet dangling off the ground. ' 'What are you doing
back from France so soon?"
"I got tired of eating snails," he said, closing the front door
with his foot. He was looking out the front window, up at the
roof across the street. Holding her around her tiny waist with
one hand, he put his bag down on the carpet, then gently disen-
246

gaged her arms from his neck. He walked over to the edge of the
window, leaned his back against the wall, and peeked through
the slit of the lace curtains.
"What's wrong, Charlie?" She went over to him.
Without taking his eyes away from the window, he held his
arm out, preventing her from coming closer. "Stay away from
the window, sweetheart."
"Why, what's the matter?"
He didn't answer her. When he had paid the taxi driver out-
side, he noticed the sun's glare reflecting off metal coming from
the roof across the street. Charlie instandy knew what it was; he
had seen that same glint of light coming from the rooftops of
Beirut too many times before. A hailstorm of bullets usually
followed. When the firing finally stopped, innocent people would
be lying dead in the street.
He scanned both sides of the block. There was the blue van
and the unmarked car with men inside wearing suits and ties.
Feds, he thought. What the fuck is going on? "Where's your
mom, honey?" he said to Cathy, forcing a smile.
"In Napa. She called early this morning and said that she was
staying over because she has to go to Tacoma tomorrow."
"What's in Tacoma?"
Cathy shrugged. "You never know with Mom."
Ain't that the truth, he thought. "Who's staying with you?"
"Cindy. She goes to UCLA. She's upstairs taking a nap."
Fuck! Those scumbags have guns trained, on a house with kids!
Charlie fought back his outrage, turned to Cathy, and smiled. He
put his arm around her shoulders and steered her away from the
exposed living room window toward the kitchen. "Let's get
Cindy and take her back to her place. I've got a surprise for you.''
"What?" she said, excited.
"I'm going to take you up to Napa to see your mom."
A smile spread across her face. "What about school tomor-
row?"
"Forget school. You deserve a holiday."
She threw her arms around his waist and hugged him. "Oh,
Charlie, you're so baaadV
247

Chapter Thirty-one
_T
he sky was a deep scarlet by the time Rena turned off High-
way 29 and onto Spring Mountain Road in St. Helena. The
muddy shadows from the fading sunlight made the road treach-
erous, with curves looking more like right angles than arcs. Rena
kept the Rover at a steady thirty-mile-an-hour clip. The tires
squealed each time she made a sharp turn. She didn't feel afraid;
she had used this road hundreds of times in the past, and she was
familiar with every bend and turn on it.
Neil Tompson, the psychiatrist at Riverside Hospital in Ta-
coma, Washington, said he wouldn't be able to meet with her
until tomorrow. Instead of waiting around doing nothing until
then, she decided to drive up to the McKinney winery and see if
there was something she may have overlooked. Someone was
behind Maura committing these murders—she was sure of it.
As she passed by the van der Slyck winery that was located
next to Maura's property, she saw Pinky's black police Bronco
parked off the road in a section of the vineyards. First she thought
about continuing straight to Maura's house, but instead pulled
over next to the four-wheeled truck and peered in. The Bronco
was empty. Suddenly she heard a cry coming from somewhere
deep within the wine fields. It sounded like a small animal, per-
haps a cat being attacked by a coyote. Then she heard it again.
It was no cat. Even though it was a high-pitched yelp, there
was a pleading tone about it. Only humans know how to plead,
she thought. Rena got out of the Rover and looked toward the
area where she thought she heard the sounds. From out of the
darkness at the end of the fields she could make out two human
shadows coming toward her. One of the silhouettes was big and
wide. He seemed to be pushing a smaller shape who was walking
unsteadily in front of him. Every time the big one shoved, the
little one would let out a scream as he fell to the ground.
248

Rena's heart was pounding with terror. Just as she was about
to get back into her Rover and take off, the murky figures got
caught in a glimmer of fading light coming through the leafy
grapevines. They were like a tableau frozen on stage. Rena could
now see their faces—Pinky's and Otto's.
Then the figures moved again. Pinky leaned over and grabbed
Otto by the back of his hair and lifted him off the ground. Otto
screamed once more. Pinky turned the little man around and
slapped him hard with the back of his hand. Otto fell to the
ground. He tried crawling away, but Pinky put his huge foot on
his spine and dug his boot heel into it.
Rena ran down the furrow toward them, ignoring the vines
and leaves slapping at her face from both sides. "Stop it!" she
screamed.
Pinky looked up and saw her. An expression of surprise reg-
istered on his face, and he quickly removed the heel of his boot
from Otto's back.
"Help me!" Otto pleaded as he held one hand out to her. His
face was covered with blood, dirt, and spit. "He wants to kill
me!" His movements resembled a lizard as he started crawling
toward her. Pinky slammed his foot down on Otto's calf, and he
cried out in agony.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?" Pinky said
harshly, looking down at his prey.
"Pinky, you're killing him!" Rena grabbed the jacket sleeve
of his uniform and tried to push him off of Otto.
"He resisted arrest," Pinky said, glaring at Rena.
"I wasn't!" Otto cried out. "He came to my house, broke
down the door, and dragged me out."
Rena looked away from Pinky and down at the pathetic figure
of his captive. Otto was crying now, and the tears were turning
red from the blood on his face. Mucus ran from his nose and
mixed with the blood. "He doesn't seem to be resisting now,"
she said, squeezing Pinky's arm. He stared back at her, his face
a bright red, and his thick lips trembling. Rena was shocked; she
had never seen this gentle giant of a man show so much hate.
"What did he do?"
Pinky took a deep, wheezing breath before he answered. He
removed his foot from Otto's leg, and said, "You know damn
well what he did. You told me about it, remember?" His voice
was breaking up, as if he were about to cry.
"What?" she asked.
249

"What he did to Maura. He's a piece of shit. A fucking ani-
mal!" He kicked Otto Is thigh hard, and the little man let out a
wail.
"Pinky, stop," she said softly, touching his arm.
"Don't Pinky me!" He pushed Rena's hand away. "Maybe
she was crazy, maybe she murdered all those people. But this
son of a bitch is sicker than she is. To set her up like that. To
have some fucking Mex try and rape her. She didn't deserve
that." Tears began to run down his face.
"Nobody deserves that," Rena said.
"She didn't!" His voice was hard again. "She was a good
kid," he mumbled. "Never hurt nobody."
Rena could see he was ready to hit Otto again, and she stepped
in between them. "Arrest him, Pinky. Don't kill him."
"There's no proof. Do you think he'll go up in front of an
entire courtroom and admit to what he did? Give me a break."
"He confessed to me. I'll be a witness."
He looked down at Otto's bleeding face, then back at Rena.
She could feel his thoughts reassembling themselves inside his
brain. Calming down, he took the steel cuffs from off his belt
and got on his knees next to Otto. He twisted the elfish man's
arms behind his back and locked the cuffs tightly around his thin
wrists. Standing back up, he grabbed Otto by his belt with one
hand and lifted him off the ground. "Wait here," he said to her
as he pushed Otto toward his Bronco. He opened the door, picked
him up by the belt again, and literally tossed him inside. He
closed the door and went back to Rena. "You know it'll never
stick," he said. "It won't even get past the arraignment."
"Maybe not, but everybody will know what happened. If
there's one thing that Otto can't stand, it's the world and espe-
cially his mother finding out about his private life. If he gets off,
I don't think he'll ever come back to this part of the country
again."
Pinky nodded slowly. "You know, if you hadn't shown up, I
think I'd have killed him."
Rena believed him. "It wouldn't have been worth it. I told
you once before that you wouldn't look good in prison blues."
"Yeah, you're probably right," he muttered, taking his hat off
and running his stubby fingers through his damp, sweaty hair.
He put his hat on again then turned and walked back to his truck.
Rena watched as he started the engine and drove down the hill
with his prisoner toward St. Helena.
250

"Yes, you probably would have killed him," she whispered
to herself. Pinky had never harmed anyone in his life.
As she made her way back to the Rover, she wondered how
many other men had fallen in love with Maura over the years and
had kept it to themselves, afraid of being rebuffed. It wasn't a
hard thing to do, she thought. Maura was brilliant, beautiful, and
elusive. When combined, these qualities became an intoxicating
elixir to men.
Rena got back into the Rover and drove the quarter-mile up
the road to Maura's winery. About two hundred feet from the
house, a government-owned brown Ford with a radio antenna on
the trunk was parked off the road and hidden between a patch of
madrona trees. Feds. Grant must have stationed some of his men
to watch the house in case Maura showed up. Do they really
think nobody can see them, even at night? Maura would have
spotted them even before she did.
She parked the Rover near Manuel's truck. The pickup was
filled with furniture, a box spring, and a mattress. She got out
of her car and rang the buzzer. A few seconds later Elvera, Man-
uel's wife, opened the door. When she saw Rena, a large smile
erupted from her round, weather-beaten face. She put her thick
brown arms around Rena's shoulders and gave her a big squeeze.
Moving away, she slid her callused hands down Rena's arms and
called her affectionately, "Little one." She had called Rena that
since she was ten years old. Leetle one. "Come in. Come in,"
she said, moving her huge body away from the door so Rena
could find some space to enter.
Inside, several suitcases of all sizes, textures, and colors, totes
and plastic garbage bags filled with household objects littered the
living-room floor. Pictures of Manuel's family that once hung on
the walls were now placed on top of the bags. Confused, Rena
turned to Elvera. "Are you moving?"
The smile faded from Elvera's face. "S(. We have to."
"Why do you have to? Don't you want to stay here?"
"Yes. This has been our home for many years." Her frantic
eyes began to water. She wiped them with the edge of her apron.
"We were told by Senor Kaplow that the house will have to be
sold and that one day we will have to leave. It is the law, he said.
Manuel has much pride."
"Yes, I know," Rena said.
"Manuel says that if our work over the years means nothing,
then we will leave now."
251

Mr. Kaplow was Donald Kaplow, Maura's attorney in Napa.
Rena had known him all her life. What law would force Manuel
and his family to leave? she wondered. "Where is Manuel?"
Rena asked her.
"Over by the winery, de-stemming the grapes from the late
harvest."
The late harvest, Rena knew, was the grapes that made up the
sweet dessert wines.
"Let me talk to Manuel," she said.
The darkness had set in now, and she carefully made her way
across the road. She had come here on a vague feeling that there
may have been something here that she and the police had dis-
regarded. After talking to Elvera, that vague feeling was begin-
ning to solidify itself.
There were lights outside the winery. She saw Manuel and his
two sons feeding grapes into the crusher-stemmer machine lo-
cated next to the oak door. The dessert wines were the only
grapes that Manuel crushed; the rest were sold in the original
clusters. The machine resembled a huge corkscrew several feet
long that was encased in an open, horizontal vat. As the grapes
were poured into the vat, the screw turned and began to squash
the fruit, pushing them into an enclosed cylinder for the removal
of the stems.
Manuel looked up from his work and saw her. Like his wife,
he also grinned at her, showing his gold front tooth. He bent
down and turned off the machine. "Senorita Halbrook," he said.
"Hello, Manuel." She rubbed her hand through the youngest
boy's hair. "I need to talk with you."
He saw the seriousness in her face. "Move!" he said to his
two boys, pointing to the door. Happy that they could play and
not have to do any more work, they raced out of the winery.
"What is the matter, senorita?" he asked, wiping the juice
from the grapes off his hands and arms with a towel.
The winery smelled sweet from the sugar content in the grapes.
"Why are you moving?"
He shook his head and clicked his tongue, then took the towel
and slammed it against the crusher-stemmer. "Laws! Your coun-
try has laws that make no sense."
"What laws, Manuel?"
"I work for Seiior McKinney since I was a young man. I work
long and hard. He promise me that I would always have a job as
252

long as the winery was owned by him or his daughter. Then when
he die, Seiiorita Maura tells me to move into the house, that she
was going to live in New York. She tell me that I can live here
forever, that she would never sell the winery.''
"Did she sell it?" If she did, the deal would have to have
transpired before the murders.
"No, senorita. Senor Kaplow say that the winery will have to
be sold, even without Senorita Maura's permission."
Something was beginning to stir around in her mind. Perhaps
her instinct about coming here was right after all. She looked at
her watch. It was after seven. "I want to call Mr. Kaplow."
Manuel nodded. "Good. Maybe he made a mistake, and we
could still stay here."
"Perhaps," she said. Rena left the stone winery and went
toward the house.
She entered the kitchen from the back door. Elvera was stand-
ing over the sink, wrapping plates in newspapers and placing
them carefully into a brown cardboard box. There was a sadness
etched in her Aztec face, and Rena felt for her. They've been
here too many years, and the McKinney winery was their home.
Whatever was happening was wrong. She asked permission to
use the phone then called information to get Kaplow's home
number. Rena figured he would be home by now and not at his
office.
Kaplow picked up after several rings. Rena told him who she
was and asked if he remembered her. With a mouthful of food,
he assured her that he remembered her very well, then inquired
about her father's health. After a few more pleasantries, she asked
if she could come over and talk with him; that it wouldn't take
very long.
"Absolutely," he said. "My wife died about a year ago, and
I could use the company.''
When Rena left the house and got into the Rover, she could
see Manuel standing by the door of the stone winery. "Are you
going to see Senor Kaplow?" he yelled at her from across the
road.
She stuck her head out of the half-open window and said,
"Yes."
"Will you ask him if he made a mistake about selling the
winery?"
"Yes, Manuel, I will."
253

Kaplow lived in Yountville, about a twenty-minute ride from
the top of Spring Mountain Road. Her stomach began to rumble
as she made her way down the dark winding trail. When had she
last eaten? Breakfast this morning. That was it.
She pulled up to Kaplow's house. The back of his Chrysler Le
Baron was sticking halfway out of his garage. As she turned the
ignition off, Kaplow opened the screen door, walked down from
the porch, and met her by her car. He was a tall, thin man with
white curly hair. Even though his shirtsleeves were rolled up, he
still wore his tie knotted up past the top button of his white-on-
white shirt. His suspenders were off his shoulders and dangled
from his waist.
He opened the door of her car. "You hungry?" he asked.
Rena looked at his smiling face. He seemed genuinely glad to
see her. "Actually," she said, laughing, "I'm starving."
"Good. I have some fried chicken left over that I made. The
problem with living alone is that you can't buy a chicken small
enough for one person. I wind up throwing half my food away."
There were all the telltale signs inside the kitchen that Kaplow
was recently widowed: dishes piled up in the sink, a weeks
amount of newspapers stacked next to the door, an overloaded
garbage bag, boxes of cereal that were never put back in the
pantry.
Kaplow sat her down at the kitchen table and brought the food
over to her. Rena ate a breast and a thigh, along with some potato
salad and coleslaw. She sipped a glass of chardonnay that Kaplow
barrel-fermented himself down in his cellar.
"You seemed anxious on the phone," he said while watching
her tear through the meat from the chicken.
"I was. Manuel said you told him that Maura's property would
have to be sold. They're packed and ready to go."
"Damn!" he said, bringing his hand down on top of the For-
mica table. "I didn't mean that they'd have to move out right
away. It could be months, maybe even a year or so down the line
before they'd have to do that."
"Why does the property have to be sold?" she asked, wiping
her hands on the paper napkin.
"There's no regulation in the books that says it has to, but a
judge will rule that way. You know anything about the 'Son of
Sam' law?"
"No," she said.
"Okay, the 'Son of Sam' law came about after Berkowitz, the
254

crazy bastard who murdered those people in New York City, was
convicted. The law basically says you can't make money from
the misery and death you inflict upon others. In other words,
neither he nor any other murderer can sell their story for a profit.
It's a damn good law. Having money and property, that's some-
thing else."
She perked up at the mention of "property." "How?"
"Let's say, conjecturally speaking, that Berkowitz had money
or property. If the family of the people he killed wished to bring
wrongful death action suits against him, then it's a ninety-nine
percent chance that a probate court would uphold the lawsuits.
There would be execution proceedings."
"Which means what?" she asked.
"That if the murderer owned land, like Maura, it would in-
voluntarily be sold in order to pay the litigants off after the judg-
ment is made."
Rena stopped eating and pushed the plate away. "Did Maura
have a will?"
"Yes. I helped her write it."
"What if she died? Would the will still be legal?"
"Remember the old adage about wills—'being of sound mind
and body.' A will is meaningless unless the person who wrote it
is considered sane by the courts at the time he or she made it
out. Would you consider someone who committed these murders
to be of sound mind?''
Good point, Rena thought. Even if she appeared sane at the
time, it could be disputed, because Maura spent time in a mental
institution when she was seventeen years old. "What assets did
she own other than the winery?" she asked.
"Actually, other than a few signed lithographs, not much at
all. The winery was her most valuable possession." The water
in the kettle began to boil on the stove, and Kaplow got up to
turn it off. He took two cups off the counter, inspected them to
see if they were clean, then put two teaspoons of Maxwell's in-
stant coffee into them. Holding the ketde handle with a towel,
he poured the water into the cups. "How do you like yours?"
"Black," she said, deep in thought. "Who did she leave the
winery to?"
He brought the cups over to the table and sat down.' 'Manuel.
He was the one who kept everything going after her father died,
and she felt that he was the one who deserved to have it if any-
thing ever happened to her.''
255

Again Rena's mind started to race. "Something did happen to
her."
"Right. If and when Maura's captured, she'll have to stand
trial. If she's found guilty or judged insane, the grieving families
of the victims have the right to sue Maura's estate. Since the
estate is composed mostly of land and vineyards, then that's what
will most likely be sold off."
Yes, the why was beginning to come into focus now. "Have
any of the families filed lawsuits?"
"A couple. It's a little premature right now because Maura
hasn't been convicted yet. Trust me, when she is, more suits will
follow."
Then a thought occurred to her. "Have there been any recent
offers to buy Maura's property?"
"Several. The McKinney vineyard is a solid piece of real es-
tate. It has good soil and drainage, and the sun hits it just right."
"But it's a small piece of property considering the acreage of
other wineries. Peter McKinney, as good as his wines were,
could barely make a living from his vineyards."
"True. But nevertheless, there have been several offers."
Rena gulped down her coffee. "Do you remember who made
these offers?"
"I'll tell you in a second." He stood up and went into his
den, which he used as a home office. A few minutes later
he came back holding a thick folder with expanding pockets. He
emptied the contents out on the kitchen table. "This is all the
work I've done for Maura and her dad.'' He sorted through stacks
of different sizes of paper until he found what he was looking
for. "Here it is." Putting his reading glasses on, he said, "In-
teresting. Two of the offers were from your father."
Rena nodded in understanding. "Peter McKinney had a good
piece of property to make his award-winning wines on. Dad
wanted to buy it for the wines he'd be able to make."
"Your father's offer was turned down by Peter McKinney and
then later on by Maura.''
"Who else?"
"A couple of years back a conglomerate out of Germany and
one out of Japan made Maura an offer, but she also said no to
that."
"Anyone else?"
"One other company. In fact, they made several inquiries
about the property within the last year alone."
256

Rena stiffened. "What's the name of the company?"
"Let's see." Kaplow searched through the file. "Here it is."
He pulled out a white piece of 8V2 x 11 paper with a fancy
letterhead. "Clurman Enterprises. I've never heard of them be-
fore. I did a search on them but came up blank."
Rena tensed up. She could sense the who's foul breath on her
neck. "Do you know how Peter McKinney originally came by
his property?"
"Yes. It was willed to his family by one of his ancestors who
settled here about one hundred years ago. The will was then
handed down from generation to generation. No one came to this
country to claim the property except Peter."
"Who has the original deed to the land?" she asked.
"I don't know if the original still exists. I'm sure the county
recorder's office in Santa Rosa has at least a copy of it."
"You've been very illuminating, Mr. Kaplow," she said,
standing up.
"The name's Donald. Only my clients who are broke call me
Mr. Kaplow. How about another cup of coffee?''
Rena sensed the man's loneliness. She understood what a rough
time he was going through: his wife dying after thirty years of
marriage. "How about a rain check on that coffee until the next
time," she said to him, shaking his hand.
"You got a deal. Are you going home now?"
"Yes," she said, opening the screen door. "I want to be at
the county recorder's office first thing in the morning."
"You seemed disturbed when I mentioned Clurman Enter-
prises. I suppose I couldn't find anything on it because it's still
privately owned and hasn't gone public."
"Maybe," Rena said. "Or maybe Clurman Enterprises
doesn't really exist." She could see the surprised look on Kap-
low's face as she closed the screen door behind her.
The who was so close now that she could almost feel the sick
bastard tickling her bones and laughing.
257

Chapter Thirty-two
_R
ush hour was still heavy by the time Charlie and Cathy
landed in San Francisco. He rented a car from Budget, and
they spent the next two hours crawling through glutted freeways
trying to get to the Napa Valley.
Charlie saw the dark shadow of the government van as soon
as he left Highway 128 and turned onto the steep gravel road that
led up to Simon Halbrook's chateau. It was parked under a cluster
of trees, partially hidden by thick foliage. These guys are here,
too! That meant they had no idea where the hell Maura was, he
thought. If they have guns trained on the house, I swear I'll kill
them!
He let out a gasp when he turned the curve and saw the me-
dieval building looming up before him.
"You never been here before, huh?" Cathy asked him when
she saw the astonished look on his face.
"Uh-huh."
"It was built by a famous duke or something in the sixteenth
century. Grandpa likes to own things that once belonged to fa-
mous people. I guess that makes him feel like he's important,"
she said with disdain.
"Immortal would be a better word."
"Like Dracula, huh?"
"Knock it off. He's your grandfather."
'' I hate him," she said folding her arms to her breast. " I don't
know why you're defending him. He certainly doesn't hide his
feelings about you.''
Charlie laughed.
"You're the only person he can't buy," she said proudly as
she blew a pink bubble out of her mouth with the gum she was
chewing.
258

"He could buy me. He just doesn't think I'm worth making
an offer to."
She giggled. "God, Charlie!"
The chateau was lit up by floodlights. As Charlie parked the
rental car near the front door, Cathy let out a groan.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
"Look." She pointed to Simon's helicopter sitting on the cir-
cular pad. "He's here. Let's go back to L.A.," she said, tugging
at his sleeve.
Charlie sighed; he wasn't too fond of Simon, either. He got
out of the car and opened the door on her side. She refused to
move. "He's an old man. He loves you," he said.
"Fuck him. My father would still be alive if it wasn't for that
old bastard."
Chaiiie wanted to tell her to watch her language. That's what
adults were supposed to tell children. But he didn't. He under-
stood her anger. Terry, Cathy's father, was a scumbag who de-
served to die. The truth about how evil he had been was always
kept from the girl. The only thing she knew was that her grand-
father had hated Terry when he was alive. That and that alone
made him the chosen person to vent her rage and hurt on.
"Move it," he said.
"Shit," she whispered under her breath as she got out of the
car.
Charlie grabbed her suitcase from the backseat and pushed her
toward the door. He rang the antique bronze bell. After a minute,
a buder about Simon's age wearing a black suit and tie answered
the door and let them in. They followed him into the massive
living room filled with Louis XIV furniture. Monets, Cezannes,
and Renoirs hung off the antique white walls giving the cavernous
room a semblance of color. Simon was on his knees stoking the
fire that was blazing in the large stone fireplace. Harrison, with
a cognac snifter in his hand, was sitting on a couch going over
papers that were spread out before him on the coffee table. Simon
heard them enter, and when he turned and saw Charlie he froze.
"Hello, Simon. How's it going? It's been a while," Charlie
said, forcing a smile.
Simon's eyes darted from Charlie over to Cathy, and his face
softened when he saw her. "I wasn't expecting you," he said
with a tremor in his voice.
"Gee, I guess that makes both of us," Cathy said contemp-
tuously while popping her bubble gum.
259

There was pain in the old man's eyes from the sound of his
granddaughter's tone; then they hardened again when he looked
at Charlie. "Why are you here?" he said, standing up. The poker
was still in his hand.
"There are men on rooftops pointing rifles at your daughter's
house in L. A. I figured it would be a lot safer for Cathy to be up
here with her mom. Where is she?"
"I don't know. The servants told me she's been staying here.
I've only just arrived a few minutes ago. Who are these men with
guns?" he asked, concerned.
"S.W.A.T. or FBI. There's also a truckload of them just down
the road from here.''
"Why?"
"Looking for Maura McKinney, I suppose. I didn't ask."
"They have no right to be on my property," Simon said with
rage. He dropped the poker on the hearth and stormed over to
the door.
"They're here to protect Rena, Simon," Harrison said, stand-
ing up and blocking his way.
Charlie saw Harrison for the first time, and his stomach tight-
ened. A primitive instinct deep inside his gut said that something
could easily happen between this man and Rena if it hadn't al-
ready. He didn't like the feeling and tried to shake it.
Harrison went over to Charlie and held out his hand. "Rena
mentioned you. My name is Harrison Monroe." Charlie nodded
and shook his hand. "And you're Cathy, right?" he said, smil-
ing.
She answered him by nodding and cracking her gum again.
"You knew these men were here?" Simon said to Harrison.
"Yes. They've been on the perimeters of the property for the
last few hours."
"Why the hell haven't you gotten in touch with me about
this?" Simon was angry. He did not like being kept in the dark.
Harrison held up his hands to calm him down. "Because you
would have demanded that they leave. They're trying to get this
maniac. The FBI thinks that she'll try and make contact with
Rena."
' 'Damn it!'' Simon took a deep breath to get his control back.
"I've been out of the country for the past week."
"What's going on, Charlie?" Cathy asked him, pulling at the
pocket of his leather jacket.
He suddenly remembered that the girl knew nothing about
260

this. Putting his arm around her shoulder, he said, "Nothing,
baby."
"Come on, Charlie. What's happening. You told me you'd
never bullshit me.
Charlie felt like kicking them all for opening their mouths in
front of her. "A friend of your mom is in trouble," he said,
bending down to her height.
"You weren't talking about a friend. You were talking about
a killer," she said, giving him a dirty look. "Is Mom's friend a
killer?"
"Yes," Simon quickly said.
Good show, Simon, Charlie thought.
"Where's my mother?" she said frightened, pushing his arms
away and backing up. "Where's my mother?"
Charlie put out his hand. "Cathy ..."
"You've been lying to me, Charlie!" Her eyes were glaring
with anger.
"Who's been lying to you?" Rena's voice said coming from
the entranceway. She had just come back from seeing Kaplow.
Cathy turned and saw her. "Mom!" She ran to Rena and
clutched her around the waist.
Rena put down her travel bag and hugged her tighdy. She
could feel her daughter's body trembling in her arms. "What are
you doing here?" she said, stroking her hair. Then she looked
up and saw Charlie, and her eyes opened wide in surprise.
"Charlie! Why aren't you . . . ?"
"In Paris? I decided to take a sabbatical." He could see how
pale and tired she looked. These murders were beginning to take
a toll on her. His body ached to touch her right now, and he
wished she'd come over and throw her arms around him right in
front of her father and whoever this tanned Adonis was. She
didn't. Instead she continued to cradle Cathy.
"Mommy," Cathy said, with tears in her eyes. "Did your
friend kill somebody?"
Rena looked at Charlie.
He shrugged and shook his head, as if to say, I didn't tell her.
"I told her," Simon said. "What difference does it make?"
"I thought you might have been killed, too," Cathy said, not
letting Rena go.
Rena scowled at Simon. "Your sensitivity amazes me some-
times."
"She's killed again," Harrison quickly added.
261

"What?" she gasped.
"This afternoon. She killed her boss. He was staying at a hotel
in Los Angeles."
"Ray Scollari?" Rena was stunned.
"That's the name," Harrison said.
"My God!"
"That's why they're watching the place. If she eludes them in
Los Angeles, she could be coming up here next." Looking dis-
turbed, Harrison bent down and picked up the papers on the
coffee table. Putting them in a leather attache case, he said, "I
think I'm going to turn in. A big day tomorrow." He shook
Charlie's hand again, showed him his white teeth, then glanced
nervously over at Rena. She looked away.
Charlie caught the look, and a feeling of hard anger surged
through his body. There was something between them. He won-
dered if whatever they had together was consummated yet. Once
again, except this time without success, he tried pushing that
thought from his mind. He quickly explained why he brought
Cathy up to Napa, then he said to her, "Your friend is right. It
is late. I'd better get going."
"That's ridiculous," Rena said, going over to him. "Stay here
tonight. I need to talk to you."
"Another time," he said, looking away from her. He bent
down and kissed Cathy on the cheek then went toward the door.
He could feel Simon's eyes on him.
Rena followed him out into the night. "Charlie, wait. What's
wrong with you?"
"I'm tired," he said, opening the door of his rented Taurus.
She held the door, preventing him from closing it. "Come on.
It's me, Charlie, remember?"
He looked at her and saw the concern and caring in her
eyes. Suddenly he realized how childish and foolish he was being.
What they had together was special, and it would take a lot more
than some George Hamilton look-alike to come between them.
As if a plug had been pulled, the jealousy ebbed from his body.
He threw his arms around her and he kissed her mouth, her
face. They held each other for a long time, their bodies pressed
firmly against each other. The sounds of the country night-
crickets, an occasional frog, the far away bark of a dog—broke
up the stillness.
"Why are you back, Charlie?" she finally murmured, still
holding onto him.
262

"I can't stand gaiiic."
"Did you quit?" she asked, looking up at him.
He pushed her head back down on his chest. "Yep. I wasn't
made to be Sam Donaldson. I need to be out in the bush."
"Ducking bullets . . . getting your ass shot off," she said
scoldingly.
He stroked her head. "You look tired, kid. How close are
these Federal yoyos really coming to capturing this woman?"
She moved away from Charlie and sat down in the front seat
of the car. He bent down next to her, resting his arm on her lap.
"Would you think I was crazy, Charlie, if I told you somebody
is doing this to Maura?"
"No. Just in need of a rest, maybe."
"Somebody is doing this to her, Charlie," she said in all
seriousness. "It has to do with her property, I'm sure of it."
Rena told Charlie to wait, then got up and went back into the
house to see if Cathy was all right. She found Cathy on the couch
with her hands folded stiffly on her lap. Simon was sitting next
to her, his hands also clasped together. Avoiding each other's
face, they focused their eyes on the fire that was raging in the
hearth. He was awkwardly attempting to have a conversation
with her. She would occasionally nod her head at something he
said. Both of them reminded Rena of two friends trying to make
up after a fight. It was about time. She smiled, then went back
outside to talk to Charlie.
He was sitting in the driver's seat of the car smoking a ciga-
rette. She got in on the other side. While looking at the full moon
hanging over the chateau, she told him everything.
He listened. Twenty minutes later he asked, "You've never
even suspected that she was a hermaphrodite?"
"No. She hid it so well. She was forced to do that by her
father."
"Who took care of Maura when she was a baby? Someone
had to have been around to change her diapers. That person
would have known what she was."
With her eyes still fixed on the lit moon, she said, "There was
such a person. When I first met Maura, I saw a woman in her
house. Maura told me she was the housekeeper. She was Turkish
and spoke no English. When Maura was sixteen, McKinney felt
she was old enough to be alone, and he sent her back to Turkey
to live. Up until the time Maura went into that private hospital
263

in Washington, the housekeeper was the only other one who
would have known about her affliction."
Even though he knew Rena hated his smoking, Charlie lit up
another cigarette.
Rena continued.' 'Here's an emotionally disturbed woman who
has hidden her true identity for all these years. Suddenly she goes
insane, just like her ancestor, the Baron de Montret. Insanity can
be inherited—everybody knows that. It all works so damn well
logically. The problem is it doesn't work psychologically. De
Montret was a lonely, abused child with very little ego, who was
molded by his depraved neighbor, the Comte Henri Maureau.
He became what die comte wanted in order to gain his approval
and love. Maura doesn't fit that profile. Yes, she was abused
mentally by her father, but unlike de Montret, she retained her
sense of self. Her will was like iron. I doubt even Martin could
have changed her."
"According to you, somebody did. Who?"
"I don't know. I don't know if it's even possible." She shook
her head.
Charlie took the last puff from the cigarette, then flipped it out
the window onto the gravel path. "People go insane and kill
other people," he said. "A guy who everybody thinks is the
greatest family man on Earth one day goes into the factory where
he works and blows twenty people away with a semiautomatic.
These things happen."
"Yes. But those are onetime acts, Charlie, that eventually end
in suicide or the person being killed by the police."
"What about serial killers?"
"Serial killers are sociopaths. Maura's not."
"You said yourself that she changed drastically after Martin
died."
Rena turned to him. "Sociopathic behavior begins during the
first years of life, maybe even earlier. When Martin died, Maura
was seventeen. She had a breakdown, and her personality was
somewhat altered from it, but that was all. The killings in the
vineyards are too ritualistic. It would take a psychopath like de
Montret to carry out such unspeakable acts. The baron actually
believed that the vineyards were alive. That's craziness of the
highest order. Maura doesn't belong in that category."
Most of the lights in the chateau went out downstairs. Simon
must be taking Cathy to her room. Good, she thought. Perhaps
they'll become friends again. Rena knew the depth of Simon's
264

love for his granddaughter.' 'Someone is doing this to her. How?
I don't know yet. And the why ... I think it has something to
do with her land. Maybe I'll know more after I go to the county
recorder's office. Will you go with me tomorrow, Charlie?"
Charlie smiled and put his arm around her shoulder. She leaned
into him. "Yeah, I'll go with you," he said. "What time is your
appointment with this shrink in Tacoma tomorrow?"
"One o'clock."
"Do you also want me to go up there with you?" he asked,
pushing the hair out of her face with his hand.
' 'No. I don't think he'd like it. He didn't sound like the friendly
type when I talked to him on the phone. I'll be back late in the
afternoon. We could see each other then."
Most of the lights in the upstairs part of the house went out,
and in the darkness the night sky suddenly appeared, becoming
a sea of stars. For the next half hour they held each other, staring
up at the maze of bright white dots, each lost in their own
thoughts.
When Rena went back inside the house, Charlie drove to a
Holiday Inn in St. Helena. She had asked him again to stay the
night, but he told her that he didn't trust Simon. Grinning, he
said that he'd probably cut his throat while he was sleeping.
After he checked into the motel, he bought a vial of Excedrin
and a bottle of J&B at the liquor store and took it to his room.
Ripping off the plastic top on the sanitized drinking glass in the
bathroom, he opened up the bottle and poured three fingers of
scotch into it. He quickly downed it and poured another. Knock-
ing off a bottle was a tradition he usually reserved for the first
night home after covering some bloody war for the Tribune. To-
night, though, was special. After listening to Rena's theory about
the murders and after agreeing to help her prove it, he felt he
deserved to get a bit loaded.
Pouring his third drink, he again wondered who the fuck the
good-looking, tanned guy was at Simon's house. He didn't want
to ask her. That's her business, he thought, as he lay down on
the bed and turned on the ESPN sports channel on TV. He
watched twenty minutes of a tractor-pulling contest, then fell
asleep.
265

Chapter Thirty-three
_A
 quarter to seven the next morning Charlie woke up with
a scaly taste in his mouth and a vibrating headache. The
half-finished bottle of J&B was on the dresser.
He made his way into the bathroom, downed three Excedrins,
and called Rena. She picked up on the first ring. "You're up
bright and early," he said, opening his tote and taking out his
toothpaste and brush. He told her where he was staying, and she
said she'd pick him up in a half hour. Charlie then spent the next
ten minutes scrubbing his teeth, trying to remove the thick film
of scotch that stubbornly clung to it.
He was waiting for her by the front entrance of the motel when
she pulled up. The morning was crisp and clear, and Charlie
noticed the healthy pink glow on Rena's cheeks. She looks good,
he thought to himself. He kissed her on the lips, tasting her
lipstick. She snuggled in his arms for a second then stepped on
the gas and drove back onto the highway.
They rode silently into the city of Santa Rosa and ate breakfast
at a diner across from the county recorder's office. It was sched-
uled to open at eight-thirty, which was twenty minutes from now.
Charlie and Rena ordered another cup of coffee and waited.
"You really quit, huh?" she asked.
"Yep," he said, stirring the cream into his coffee cup until
the color was a milk chocolate.
"What will you do?"
"Find another job. There are other papers."
Rena sighed, nodding. Yes, there were other papers that would
be more than happy to send you off to the ends of the world to
die, Charlie. I suppose that's what you really want, isn't it? she
thought.
As if reading her mind, he said, "I like what I do."
She smiled, pushing down the sadness that was springing up
268

inside her. Rena turned to look out the window. A Mazda pulled
up in front of the recorder's office and a thin, bald-headed man
got out. He went up the steps, stuck a key into the door lock,
and opened it. "I think the recorder's office is now open," she
said, wiping her mouth with her napkin.
Charlie tossed a few bills on the table and left the diner with
Rena. They crossed the street and entered the white-bricked
building.
The bald man was behind the counter carefully putting his
wash-'n'-wear suit jacket onto a hanger. After brushing some
dandruff flakes off his coat with his hand, he hung it up in the
closet. When he saw Rena and Charlie, he grabbed a cardigan
from the rack, put it on, and went over to them. "Can I help
you?" he asked as he adjusted his tortoiseshell glasses around
his small ears.
With the cardigan on, the man reminded Charlie of Mr. Rog-
ers. Welcome to my neighborhood. "I'd like to see the original
deed to the Peter McKinney property on Spring Mountain Road
in Napa," Charlie said.
The bald man laughed and shook his head. "What's with that
piece of hill? I get more requests about it than anything else."
"Requests from who?" Rena asked, surprised.
"There were some telephone calls about it first. A couple of
different people. Nobody would give a name. Then some strange
fellow came in a few weeks ago to look at the deed, same as
you."
"This strange guy have a name?" Charlie asked.
"Didn't give one and I didn't ask for one."
"What did he look like?"
Mr. Rogers shrugged. "Didn't really pay attention to what he
looked like either. I was too busy watching his movements. Real
weird. I think he was old, though." He turned to the metal shelves
in back of him and took down a black cardboard file box. He
moved papers around inside it until he came to an old manila
file.
"How was he acting strange?" Rena asked him.
"His eyes were queer; glazed over. He said he wanted to buy
the property. I tried explaining to him that I had nothing to do
with it, that I just worked here. It was hard to understand him.
He was shaking, and he couldn't stand still. And when he walked,
he looked like he was drunk. Real unsteady. I bet he must have
downed a few before he came here."
267

"What else?" she murmured.
"What else, what?"
"What other unusual things did you notice about this man?"
"Funny that you'd ask that. He looked like he had a bad cold.
His nose was all stuffed. Oh, yeah, one other thing."
"What?"
"He was real yellow looking—like the color of a ripe yam. I
guess everybody has their own kind of troubles.'' He handed her
the copy of the McKinney deed.
Rena and Charlie took it over to the window to look at it. The
deed stated that the original owner of the property was a Liam
O'Connor. It was purchased by him in 1880.
"Do you have the original request for the deed by Liam
O'Connor?" Rena asked the clerk.
"That goes back a ways. Is it necessary to see it?" The thought
of digging through piles of old boxes in the cellar didn't please
him.
"It's necessary," she said.
He scratched the top of his bald head and said,' 'Can you come
back tomorrow?"
"It shouldn't take you more than fifteen minutes to find it. If
you don't mind, we'll just wait," Charlie said with an edge to
his voice.
The man glared at Charlie then went into the back room. Ten
minutes later he came out with an old ledger that was two feet
long and several inches thick. His cardigan had a coat of dust
over it, and there was sweat on his brow. ' 'These are the requests
for land in the Sonoma Napa counties in the year eighteen
eighty," he said, banging the tome down on the counter.
"That many?" Rena was amazed by its size.
"If you knew your history of California, then you'd know lots
of things were happening in those days." He turned the pages
until he came to Liam O'Connor's request. "Here it is." The
aged paper was encased in plastic.
Rena and Charlie bent over the ledger and looked at the old-
fashioned quilled lettering. The Irish immigrant was twenty-five
years old when he bought the land from the United States gov-
ernment on January 26, 1880. He came from the city of Water-
ford. O'Connor put down toolmaker as his occupation. The
reason he wanted to purchase the land was to dig for ore. There
were words scribbled on the bottom portion of the aged ledger:
Died of spotted fever on March 4, 1880.
268

O'Connor had the land less than two months before he died,
Charlie thought. "What kind of ore was he looking for?" he
asked. "It doesn't say."
The clerk laughed. "What kind of ore do you think it was?
What would make so many people purchase land in California
around that time?" he said pointing to the thick volume on the
counter.
"Gold!" Charlie said, suddenly understanding.
"You got it," the clerk said, wiping the sweat from his face
with the sleeve of his sweater.
"Was gold ever discovered in the Napa hills?" Charlie asked.
"Sure," he said. "A large deposit was uncovered in Calistoga
in the late eighteen hundreds. The Silverado and Palisades mines.
People like Liam O'Connor spent their lives digging in these
hills."
"Not Liam O'Connor. He died right after he bought the land.''
The man pushed his glasses up on his nose and looked at the
ledger. "Oh, yes, I remember. There was a typhus epidemic
around that time—killed lots of people in this valley."
They thanked Mr. Rogers and left.
On the drive back to Napa Charlie was silent. Rena could tell
that his head was spinning. "You're seeing a story, aren't you,
Charlie?"
"Yep." He put his knee up on the dashboard and lit a ciga-
rette. "I wonder if there's gold in them thar hills?"
Rena smiled. "The clerk said gold was discovered in Calis-
toga. That's only ten miles away from Maura's property."
"Liam O'Connor put in his request in Eighteen eighty. There's
no record of him finding gold," Charlie said, letting the smoke
curl out from his nose and mouth.
"That doesn't mean anything. He could have found the veins
but didn't report it right away because he was frightened of
poachers. Land stealing at that time was a common practice."
"True," he said. "O'Connor willed the property to his kin in
Ireland. Then he died of typhus. He probably didn't even have
the time to write to his family or make a new probate stating his
find."
Perhaps there was gold on McKinney's property, Rena thought.
What other reason would someone be interested in it? She glanced
over at Charlie. His eyes were alive with excitement. At least this
story wasn't in some disease-ridden jungle where he could get
269

killed. Her veins were on fire like his. Yes, she could feel it
starting to come together.
"You don't have to be at the airport fora couple of more hours.
Why don't we take a look and see what's in McKinney's back-
yard?" he said.
"What do you know about gold, Charlie?" she asked causti-
cally.
"Once when I was covering the Angolan War, I toured a gold
mine outside of Johannesburg."
"Once, huh?"
"Once."
"That should make you an expert." Smiling, Rena headed for
the McKinney property.
An hour later they had completed surveying the perimeter of
the vineyards.
Sitting down on the bench outside the winery, Rena said,
"What now, genius. What were you looking for?"
Charlie sat down beside her, stretched his legs outward, and
rubbed his sore thigh muscles. "Something that says there's gold
here. Igneous rocks maybe. There's always some traces of gold
in them. Gold comes from the Earth's core."
Rena turned to him. Her face was staid. "From the Earth's
core. Like where molten lava comes from?"
"Yeah. Why?"
She stood up. "I think you'd better come with me, Charlie.
There's something in the vineyards that I forgot to show you."
Charlie followed her into the fields. When she came to the
spring, she stopped walking and knelt down beside it.
"It's a hot spring, Charlie. Molten lava heats hot springs."
"I know." He squatted down beside her and put his hand in
the water. He cupped some in his palm, brought it to his face,
and sniffed. "Saline," he said.
Rena suddenly understood why Maura always went wading
here. She had sensitive skin, and sometimes red blotches ap-
peared on it. Dr. Parsons told her that blotching is a common
malady of chimerism and that it affects many hermaphrodites.
The warm, saltwater must have soothed her.
"Hot springs are wanned by geothermal activity," Charlie
said. ' 'Underground springs like this one are heated when molten
lava escapes from the cracks in the Earth's core and finds its way
up to the surface." He grinned and wiped his wet hand on his
jeans. "Lava also brings gold up from the core. Usually the first
270

thing that happens after a hot spring is found is to check to see
if there's gold in the same vicinity."
Rena stood up. "I wonder if this one was ever checked."
' 'I'll bet you anything that Liam O'Connor checked.'' He got
up from the ground and wiped the grass and mud from his jeans.
Rena nodded. She no longer had doubts about the why. The
who, however, was still up for grabs.
Chapter Thirty-four
_C
harlie drove her to the airport. Two hours later Rena's
small plane let down in Tacoma.
Two days ago when she had called Neil Tompson, the head
psychiatrist of Riverside Hospital, he was not about to discuss
one of his patients with her over the phone. He would, however,
begrudgingly grant her a meeting if she chose to fly up there.
Rena told him that she understood and that she respected his
concern about client/doctor confidentiality.
She took a cab to Browns Point overlooking the East Passage
of the Puget Sound. The mist was so thick that the water was
barely visible.
The cab took a left off Route 509 and wound its way up a
curved, private road, away from the other residential houses.
Two miles of twists and turns and the road ended abruptly at the
wrought-iron gates of Riverside Hospital. The grounds were im-
mense, covered by several acres of an emerald green, manicured
lawn. In the middle loomed a large, white, Colonial-style build-
ing supported by four pillars.
Several patients wearing robes slowly wandered around the
grounds. One man was walking in small circles, talking to him-
self. Sitting on a bench watching them were two black male aides
dressed in white uniforms. They looked bored. As Rena made
her way toward the house, she passed by the patient walking in
circles. He looked familiar. Perhaps an actor, she thought. Yes,
271

he was a cowboy actor who had his own TV series in the early
sixties. When Westerns went out of vogue, his career took a
downward plunge.
The front door was open, and she walked into a large vesti-
bule. The floor was made of Italian marble squares, and a stair-
case in the middle of the entrance hall wound its way up past a
large chandelier to more rooms on the second floor. Off to the
right was an oak-paneled reading room with wall-to-wall books.
A woman patient wearing a pink cashmere robe was sitting alone
on the couch leafing through a Vogue magazine. French doors
on the left opened up to an even larger room with a fireplace. If
Rena didn't know this was a mental institution, she'd swear it
was someone's estate and the patients were really weekend guests.
She had heard about these kinds of hospitals. Only the rich
could afford their treatment. Confidentiality was what they were
known for, and in return for that the patients, families, or em-
ployers paid them huge sums of money. Mental illness was still
a stigma in today's society. Movie stars, business heads, and
political leaders suffering from stress and depression could lose
everything once the public got wind of their sickness. Peter Mc-
Kinney was far from being a rich man; it must have taken every-
thing he had to pay for the time Maura was here. Rena knew that
insurance would not cover even a small percentage of the costs.
Directly over to the right side of the foyer was a door marked
Private in black stenciled letters. Rena knocked. A woman's
voice answered, "Come in."
Rena opened the door and walked into Riverside's administra-
tion office. Over at the end, two secretaries were seated at metal
desks containing computer terminals. The larger, more central
desk was taken up by a big-boned, middle-aged woman wearing
a nurses outfit. She looked surprised when she saw Rena. "Yes?"
she said.
' 'My name is Rena Halbrook, and I have an appointment with
Dr. Tompson."
"Oh yes," she said, slightly annoyed. "He said you were
coming." She picked up the phone and dialed Tompson's sec-
retary. After she hung up, she told Rena to go upstairs to the
second floor. Dr. Tompson's secretary would be at the top of the
stairs waiting for her.
Rena found Tompson's secretary a lot friendlier than the large-
bodied nurse downstairs. She was a pretty woman with blond
hair, small white teeth, and freckles along the bridge of her nose.
272

She took Rena into an outer office, knocked on the thick, oak
door, then opened it. Sticking her head in, she told Dr. Tompson
his appointment was here. Then she stepped out of the way and
let Rena inside.
Tompson was standing over by the window looking out onto
the hospital grounds. Rena was taken aback by his casual ap-
pearance. He was a tall, well-built man in his early sixties, and
he had on a navy blue Adidas sweatsuit. She expected the head
of such a prominent hospital to be dressed in a three-piece suit,
or at least a tweed sports jacket. She also expected a dark stuffy
room with a worn, brown leather couch and an oak desk. Instead,
she found a modern office with gray walls and a Berber carpet.
A large, Italian glass desk was in die middle of the room, and
the walls were covered with framed lithographs of Warhol, Licht-
enstein, and Jasper Johns. Over in the comer was an expensive,
computerized Lifecycle.
He walked around his desk, smiled, and offered her his hand.
"Hi, I'm Dr. Tompson." He motioned to a designer chair with
angled metal legs for her to sit on, then went over to the small
fridge on the shelf, and opened it up. "Pellegrino?" he asked.
"No, thank you," she said.
He took out a bottle, poured the contents into a glass of ice,
and dropped a lemon wedge into it. Sitting back down behind
his glass desk, he asked politely, "Now, how can I help you, Dr.
Halbrook?"
"In Nineteen seventy-four Maura McKinney was a patient in
this hospital."
"Yes, you already mentioned her on the phone. You know I
can't reveal any information regarding my patients," he said,
still smiling at her.
"You may not have a choice. If you don't wish to discuss
her with me you will have to discuss her with the Federal
authorities."
The smile left his face.
She let that one sink in for a moment, then went on. "You
have to be aware that Maura is the prime suspect in the vineyard
killings and mutilations, and also of the murder of her boss, Ray
Scollari."
"Of course," he said abruptly.
"But you never notified the police that you may have infor-
mation that could be pertinent in finding her."
273

He shook his head. "I have absolutely no information of that
kind at all."
"That would be for the police and the FBI to decide."
"And since you're neither one, I'd like to know your interest
in this?" He moved into his desk and clasped his hands.
"I'm Maura McKinney's friend," she said softly.
"You're also a psychologist. Even in your profession I'm sure
client confidentiality exists."
She caught the snideness in his voice. The same old story, she
thought. Many psychiatrists, and she believed Tompson to be
among them, felt that drugs, and not psychotherapy, were the
answer in curing mental illness. They had a tendency to snub
their noses at psychologists who use therapy to obtain the same
results. "Of course, confidentiality exists, even in my profession.
But when crimes of this heinous nature are committed, confiden-
tiality must take a backseat," she responded.
He nodded. "Yes, I know that. Thank you for informing me
about the rules of my profession. I have absolutely no informa-
tion to divulge about her.''
Rena tried to control her temper, but she found his arrogance
hard to deal with. She knew the real reason that Tompson wasn't
cooperating was because of the notoriety his hospital would
achieve if he helped in apprehending Maura. Television and
newspaper reporters would be all over his well-kept grounds try-
ing to find out about him and his patients. The less people knew
about Riverside Hospital the better. Its advertising relied on
whispers and subtlety, not on a media blitzkrieg. Rena knew that
if she was going to get any information at all, she'd better exploit
the hospital's fear of suddenly becoming prominent in the pub-
lic's eye. "I know you were her psychiatrist when she was a pa-
tient here. I'm not looking to pry into her medical history. I know
all about it. She had a nervous breakdown after her lover was
murdered. The reason she was brought here was to hide the fact
that she was a true hermaphrodite."
He seemed a little surprised. "You already know about it?
Has it been made public?"
"Yes. I found the medical data on her compiled by Dr. Wil-
liam Frawley. Your name and Riverside Hospital were mentioned
in it. That's how I found you. She was taking Parnate and Xanax,
did you know that?"
Tompson moved his glass of Pellegrino away from him and
274

stood up. "Dr. Halbrook, I don't mean to be impertinent, but I
have patients to see."
Still remaining seated, Rena said, "Xanax is considered ad-
dictive. Dr. Frawley never prescribed those drugs. How did she
come by them?" For a brief second Rena could see the look of
fear cross the suave man's eyes. "There are no records of these
drags being administered by any pharmacy in the country, yet
the law specifically states that records must be kept."
"What is your point, Doctor?" he asked irritably.
"That this prestigious hospital may have been dispensing these
medications to her."
Tompson sat back down again. "Once again, what is your
point?'' He tried to keep his voice steady, but it was beginning
to break up. A coat of sweat was forming on his brow.
"The point being that even though this hospital was sending
the medication to Maura McKinney out of respect for her pri-
vacy, it's still against the law. I understand that the clientele you
cater to are composed of eminent people who wish to hide their
psychological problems. There's a good chance the public would
find out that these prominent citizens were taking antidepressants
and tranquilizers if the prescriptions were filled at local drug-
stores. Now, I may not condone what this hospital is doing, but
I'm also not about to go to the authorities with it."
Tompson studied Rena's face for a few seconds, then he asked
quietly, "How can I help you Dr. Halbrook?"
Rena relaxed. Maybe she had gotten to him. "How well do
you remember Maura, Doctor?"
"How well? Very well," he said forcefully. "How many
XX/XY chromosomal true hermaphrodites come along in a life-
time? Even though I was the head of this hospital, I insisted on
becoming her psychiatrist. A very interesting case. She was
forced to hide her true identity from the world."
"By her father."
"Yes." He got up and refilled his glass with Pellegrino water,
then he went over to the window and gazed out at the pine trees
that were planted exactiy the same distance apart from each other
along the rim of the hospital grounds. He stayed that way for a
while, then he said almost in a whisper, "Did you know she
thought that it was her father and not a burglar who killed her
boyfriend?"
"Yes," she said. "I've heard the rumors."
' 'She was still a patient here when her father was killed in that
275

car crash. After that happened, she began to open up a little. She
said she saw a shadow running into the woods after Martin was
shot, and that it appeared to be her father. Her conscious mind
tried to block it out. We gave her tranquilizers, and she began to
talk about it."
Rena's heart began to race. She knew how Peter always hated
Martin.
He continued. "Maura's lover was the one threat in her father's
life. The one person other than himself who had a hold on Maura.
He may have discovered that they were sleeping together and
killed him. Maura was a difficult patient." Tompson smiled in
remembrance. "It was like pulling teeth with her. She could shut
herself off from the world when she wanted to. I tried to open
that avenue up with drugs. Some things she talked about, but
basically she remained stubborn."
"How long was she here?" Rena asked.
"Oh, a few weeks, I suppose."
"Didn't you think she may have needed more therapy than a
few weeks?" Rena asked dubiously.
"Of course," he said turning to look at her.
' 'Why wasn't she here for a longer period of time?''
"Mr. McKinney was not a rich man. This hospital's expen-
sive."
Rena fought back the disgust she was feeling. "So she was
sent back into a world that she was not ready to face."
"She could have received treatment from the county she was
living in," he said defensively.
"You knew that her father would never have permitted that.
Instead, she was looked after by a country doctor who knew
absolutely nothing about hermaphroditism or how to deal with
her psychological instability." Her voice was hard.
"My priorities were to this hospital. Believe me, I wanted her
to stay. Working with her would have been an historical event in
the psychotherapeutic field. Unfortunately I had to adhere to a
strict policy governing patients."
Yes, they had to be rich and famous, she wanted to tell him.
She wanted to remind him that his priorities should have been to
his patients and not to the hospital, but she thought better of it.
"Did you prescribe the medications?"
"You know I won't answer that," he said.
"Who was monitoring her?" she asked, ignoring his re-
276

sponse. ' 'You know as well as I that she should have been closely
regulated when given that kind of medication."
"Let's just say that I consulted with Dr. Frawley from time to
time."
From time to time! "Those were potentially harmful drugs!
She should have been personally monitored at least twice a
month." My God, the irresponsibility of this man! Rena took a
deep breath to calm herself down, then asked,' 'Who else worked
here that knew about Maura's affliction?"
"About her being double-sexed? The entire staff and most of
the patients, I suppose. This knowledge was to have been re-
stricted just to me, my assistant, and an aide, but the hospital is
small, and you know how things get around. I mean, she wasn't
exactly your run-of-the-mill convalescent." Tompson picked out
the lemon wedge that was floating in his Pellegrino and began
sucking on it.
Rena sighed in disappointment. She had hoped the list would
be narrower than that. "May I see the patient files during the
time she was here?" she asked knowing what his reaction would
be.
"Absolutely not!" He walked back over to his desk and put
his glass down on it. "Those files are confidential and ..."
She stood up, her face trembling with anger. "Don't hand me
that shit about confidentiality! What you should be more con-
cerned about is responsibility. You've illegally sent one of your
patients drugs, and she's been taking them without any supervi-
sion. The only man who knew about it was a small-town doctor,
and now even he's dead."
He looked shocked. "Dr. Frawley is dead? I didn't know ..."
"No one commits these grisly acts, Doctor, without first
showing signs that it was going to happen. You were her doctor.
You should have kept closer tabs on her, and not pawned her off
on an inexperienced man like Frawley. The only reason this hos-
pital is in existence is to make money, so please don't insult me
by using professional words like patient confidentiality. Now will
you let me see those records? I'm not interested in the medical
treatment she received, even though I'm sure I'd find that fasci-
nating," she said with contempt. "All I want to know is who
the patients were during the time she was hospitalized."
"This is highly irregular. I can lose my license if I divulge
that information.''
The fear was back in his eyes, and she liked that. "I can
277

promise you that this information will go no further than me at
this point in time. If I don't get to see those files, I will contact
the FDA and explain to them how you dispense drugs and how
well you oversee your patients who take them. Then, my friend,
I can guarantee you that you will lose your license."
Tompson had a bitter smile on his face as he shook his head
in disbelief. He pushed the intercom button on his desk and said
into it, "Miss Dewhurst, my guest, Dr. Halbrook, is on her way
downstairs. Please give her access to our patient files for the year
Nineteen seventy-four. Make sure they 're only for that year.'' He
clicked the machine off, looked at Rena, and said through tight
lips, "You're a hard woman, Dr. Halbrook."
"These are hard times, Dr. Tompson," she replied, staring
right back into his eyes.
Miss Dewhurst was waiting for Rena at the bottom of the
stairs. She was the unfriendly, fleshy woman who was sitting
behind the desk in the administrative office when Rena first came
in. Without acknowledging Rena, she quickly turned and walked
toward her office; the spongy soles of her white hospital shoes
squeaked like hungry mice every time her feet touched down on
the marbled floor. Rena followed her into the office toward the
back room. Dewhurst unlocked the door with a key and went
inside. A personal computer was on a desk. Lining the walls
were several rows of black metal file cabinets.
Not even bothering to look at Rena, the administrative nurse
said, "Would you prefer to see the files on the computer or in
the original folders?"
"In the folders," Rena said.
Dewhurst bent down and unlocked a file drawer. "This con-
tains the patients who were here in Nineteen seventy-four. Please
refrain from trying to open the other drawers to look at more
files. It won't do you any good. They're all locked."
As soon as she left, Rena began looking at the folders. She
was in luck; there was a photograph of each patient stapled on
the admittance forms. Rena went through them slowly, studying
every name and every face. Some of the names she knew because
they were famous: one was a well-known opera star; another was
the head of a car company in Detroit. She knew him personally
because he was a good friend of her father's. The patient list was
small, and in a couple of minutes she came upon Maura's file.
Her photo was on the front part of the folder. How sad and alone
she looked! Her eyes were sunken into her cheeks, and they
278

looked lifeless. Perhaps she was drugged. After meeting Tomp-
son, she wouldn't put it past him.
Rena carefully went through the file. Most of it contained
things about her that she already knew: fits of violent outbursts
followed by total inertia—almost to the point of being comatose.
This lasted for a period of a month. She refused to see her father
during that time. When he tried seeing her, she would throw fits
and would have to be physically restrained. After Peter McKin-
ney was killed in the car accident, she began to come around:
her appetite returned, and she started talking in coherent sen-
tences.
Rena scanned the rest of it. Many intricate details of Maura's
life, past and present, were written down by Dr. Tompson and
his head attendant. Everything was here: Maura's apprehension
of the world finding out she was a hermaphrodite; her feelings
toward Martin; her yearnings, her hates. Yes, everything was
here, even the part about the Barbie doll she renamed Jasmine
Dawn. Maura had opened up a great deal to these people.
Except there was nothing in these files that could be of any help.
What the hell was she looking for anyway? A name—something
that could make sense to all of this.
Just as she was about to close Maura's file, she saw it—a small
notation written by her attendant. The skin on top of her skull
started to pulsate. It wasn't what the note said that caused this
sensation; it was the name scribbled under it. Maura's attendant
was Julian Clurman. Like in Clurman Enterprises.
She was right! There was a who behind this.
Rena backtracked through the year '74, hoping to find more
on this Clurman. The name occasionally appeared in conjunction
with other patients, but there was nothing that said who the per-
son was. Nothing in here that gave him a personality ... a face.
There has to be more than this! she thought.
She turned her head toward the other file cabinets. If there was
more, then it just may be in these other files. She quickly got up
from the desk and went over to them. They were locked. "Shit!"
she yelled, kicking at one of the metal compartments.
Miss Dewhurst walked in. She looked at Rena and scowled in
disdain. "Dr. Halbrook, you were told not to touch the other
files."
' 'I need to see these other files. Open these drawers up!" Rena
said severely, pointing to the cabinets.
Miss Dewhurst's jaw tightened, and she put her hands on her
279

thick hips. "You promised you wouldn't go near the other files
if we let you in here," she responded stubbornly.
"Open up these goddamn drawers immediately!" She was
screaming now, but she didn't care.
Dr. Tompson walked in and saw the wild look on Rena's
face. After a beat, he said to Miss Dewhurst, "What's going
on here?"
Exasperated, the nurse replied, "She wants to see more of the
files. I told her . . ."
"Please open the drawers," Rena said forcibly.
"Just what are you looking for?" Tompson asked.
"The truth about the vineyard murders," she stated.
He folded his arms to his chest and glanced at the cabinets.
"It's one thing when you want to see files that are sixteen years
old, it's another thing when you're asking to see our entire patient
list. It would be unethical of me to let you look at any more
names, Doctor."
'' People are being murdered, Doctor!'' she quickly stated, her
eyes glued to his.
Tompson felt her urgency. He thought about her request for a
few seconds, then said, "All right, I suppose there's nothing
wrong with that if we keep this quiet."
Nurse Dewhurst, mouth open in disbelief, said, "But Dr.
Tompson ..."
"Do it," he said to her.
"But. . ."
"Doit!"
Dewhurst shook her head and clucked her tongue. She bent
down and unlocked the file drawers one by one, then stepped
back.
Rena leaned over and quickly opened one of the drawers.
Suddenly she turned to Tompson and asked, "Does Julian Clur-
man still work here as an attendant?"
"Absolutely not!" he answered with contempt.
She heard his tone. "What happened to him?"
"First of all Julian is a she. We had to let her go. We found
out that she was physically abusing some of the patients."
Rena stared at him, stunned. "A she?"
"Yes."
"When was she fired?"
"A year ago. Why?"
Rena didn't answer. She turned back to the files.
280

"What's the point in this?" Tompson said impatiendy, after
watching Rena go through almost all of the drawers.
Rena chose not to answer him. There were two more files to
look at. So far she found nothing. She opened up the 1989 folder
and scanned through the names with her finger. At the bottom
of the list her finger stopped. Startled, she looked up at Tompson.
"What is it?" he asked.
"One of the patients who was here last year.''
"Who?"
Her breath was heavy. "Edmond Farnsworth."
"Yes. What about him?"
"I know him. He's a friend of my father's. What was wrong
with him?"
"A breakdown. He tried to kill himself. It happens frequently
to men in high-level, high-pressure jobs."
"He told me that he had a heart attack last year at this time.''
Tompson laughed. "Very few people will admit that they tried
to take their own life. I'm sure he was just substituting another
hospital for this one so he wouldn't feel embarrassed."
True, she thought. While looking through the files, she had
come upon several names that she either knew personally or were
business acquaintances of her father's. None of them would ever
admit to why they were here.
"Edmond called me a few months ago to give me a progress
report. He said he was happily married now and that he was in
the wine business."
Rena looked down at Edmond's file and saw that his attendant
was also Julian Clurman. "What did Julian look like, Doctor?"
He furrowed his brows, thinking. "Oh, reddish hair. . . fifty-
five years old ... tall.. . heavyset. Edmond was one of her last
patients at the hospital. In fact, he played an indirect role in her
dismissal."
"What happened?"
"She broke his arm. Clurman was alone with him in the room
at the time it happened. She claimed he slipped on some wet tile
in the bathroom. The surgeon who examined the arm told a dif-
ferent story. He showed us the X rays. You could see where the
limb was literally twisted out of the socket until the bone snapped.
A fall could not produce that kind of trauma. This made us very
suspicious."
"What did Edmond say?"
"He didn't know how it happened. The man was fairly well
281

sedated at the time. We then checked with some of Clurman's
other patients. At first they were too frightened to talk. After
assurances were made, they began to lose their fear of her and
started telling us about the things she did to them—verbal and
physical abuse, prolonged enemas, purposely missing the veins
when she gave needles. Sick things! She was promptly dis-
charged."
"Do you know what happened to her?"
"No, nor do I care."
Rena glanced up at the clock on the wall. Shit! It was already
four-twenty. The last plane to San Francisco was at four-thirty.
There was no way she could make it in time. She'd have to spend
the night in Tacoma. "May I use your phone, Doctor?"
"Certainly."
She first dialed the airlines to find out what time the earliest
flight left for San Francisco tomorrow, then she called Charlie's
motel. He wasn't in. She left a message for him to pick her up
at eleven-thirty the next morning.
Hanging up, she thought, The who finally has a name. Now
how the hell do I find her?
Chapter Thirty-five
_W
aura picked up the pay phone located outside an all-night
movie theater on the corner of Sixth and Main in Los An-
geles. She got the phone number for KROS radio station from
the operator and dialed the number.
Near exhaustion, her body racked with fever once again, she
vaguely remembered where she'd been for the last day and a half.
Most of it was a blur. She remembered wandering the streets
and maybe going into an all-night movie theater and falling
asleep. She just wasn't sure and that frightened her more than
the fever returning.
She hugged her body; the chills had come again.
282

The sun was setting, causing a brilliant wash of red-and-purple
light to bounce off the windows of the seedy, off-white stucco
buildings surrounding her. The glare was so strong that it hurt
her eyes, and she had to cover them. When the operator picked
up, she cleared her throat, then asked for the name of the station's
owner. After she was given the name of Bud Masterly, she then
asked for the personnel department.
"Personnel," the woman's voice on the other end said.
"Yes, this is Federal Express. I have a delivery for a Miss . . .
let me see ... a Miss Rena Halbrook. The address on the en-
velope is partially obscured. I can make out that it's somewhere
in the Brentwood area from the zip code, but the street and house
numbers are illegible."
"I'm afraid I can't give out that information over the phone.
Why don't you call the sender for the address?"
"I am. The sender is a Mr. Bud Masterly, and the address of
the sender is KROS. I was transferred by someone in your com-
pany to get the info from personnel. If there's a problem, I'll be
more than happy to return the package. Make up your mind on
this, okay? I don't have all day." She sounded impatient.
"No, that won't be necessary. Bud Masterly did you say?"
"That's what I said." She could hear the nervousness in the
woman's voice.
After several seconds the woman in personnel got back on the
line. "One hundred and three Canyon View Drive."
"Thank you," Maura said, about to hang up.
"Except she isn't there. She's out of town."
Her heart sank. "Do you know where she can be located?"
"Yes. She's staying up in the Napa Valley. Her father owns a
winery. Let me get you the address."
Maura hung up. She already knew the address. Banging her
fist against the wall in frustration, she took a deep breath to
control herself. Now was not the time to lose it. She had to think.
Could she chance going up there? She had to. There was no
longer any choice.
The clicking of the metal started racing through her head once
again. The panic feeling was setting in and so was the headache.
No, there was no longer a choice! Last night she did the one thing
she feared most; she had fallen asleep. Had she killed again? She
didn't know. There were just fogged-over images of the last
twenty-four hours.
She put more change into the slot of the phone machine and
283

tried calling Uncle Wiggly. No one answered. What happened
to him?
She quickly walked outside and flagged down a taxi. Her body
was soaked in sweat from the panic attack and fever. "LAX,"
she said as she got in.
"What airline?" the driver asked. Through the rearview mir-
ror he could see how white and damp her face was.'' You okay?''
"Yes," she said, taking out the Xanax and two Darvocets
from her bag. " Drop me off at Terminal One." A bus was safer,
but she couldn't afford the time it would take to get up there. She
had wasted too much time as it was. With luck, she wouldn't be
recognized.
She undid the cap on the vial and popped one milligram of
Xanax in her mouth along with the Darvocets and swallowed
them. In a few minutes the horrible feeling of anxiety would
shrink back into the recesses of her psyche and the fear would
subside. Until then, she shut her eyes and tightly clutched onto
the folds of the backseat as the cab made its way through the
rush-hour traffic on the 405 Freeway.
At the Western ticket booth she was told that the plane leaving
in a few minutes for San Francisco was sold out but that there
were several seats still open on the next flight, which departed
an hour later. Maura paid for the ticket in cash. She rode up the
escalator and toward a line of people that were making their way
past the metal detector. In front of her was a man with his arm
around his young daughter's waist. Maura watched as he lovingly
squeezed the girl toward him. He was telling her something and
she started giggling. He'd say something else and she'd laugh
some more.
A wave of sadness descended upon Maura. If only her father
had been that loving to her. Then the feeling of hate came over
her. It always did when she thought about Peter. She watched
the girl with her father make their way toward the departure gate
until they were out of sight. Sighing deeply, she hoped she'd be
with Rena soon and this horrible nightmare would finally come
to an end.
She landed in San Francisco at seven in the evening.
Maura saw the two uniformed officers as soon as she came out
of the arrival gate at the airport. They were standing next to the
entrance holding a composite drawing of a woman's face and
watching the passengers as they disembarked from the plane she
was just on. Their eyes were scrutinizing the faces and the builds
284

on the women. Her hand went quickly into the pocket of her
sweater and clutched the vial of Placidyls. Looking straight ahead,
Maura walked by them. She was shivering from the fever, and
she prayed they wouldn't notice.
One of the officers glanced her way then looked down at the
drawing. From the corner of her eyes she could see a wisp of
suspicion cross his face, then it quickly disappeared, and his eyes
went back to scanning the crowd.
She let go of the vial. If the officers had approached her, she
would have swallowed the pills. Then she realized they would
have gotten her to a hospital and had her stomach pumped before
the Placidyls would have done any good. No, the best thing to
do if trapped was to end it by attacking them. They would shoot
her. There would be a flash of pain, then it would be over. The
thought of how good death would feel comforted her as she made
her way out of the terminal.
285

FIVE

Chapter Thirty-six
_S
an Francisco was wet and cold tonight.
Maura spent most of the time wandering the streets of
North Beach and going into all-night Italian coffeehouses to keep
warm. Whenever she lingered too long and a proprietor got sus-
picious, she'd leave and find another espresso joint. Eventually
she went into an X-rated movie house open on Broadway. Tired
and weak, her mind still fogged over, she climbed the stairs
leading up to the empty balcony and fell into a deep sleep in the
back row.
She awoke three hours later from the touch of someone's hand
on her breast. Maura looked up and saw a grubby, middle-aged
man sitting next to her. His fly was open and he was quickly
stroking his hard penis while squeezing her breast with dirt-caked
fingers. Grunting sounds emanated from his throat, and the
stench of his breath was nauseating.
Fuck me, Jack. Fuck me! came from the sound track on the
screen.
Just as she pushed his hand away, he ejaculated. He released
a deep groan and the milky liquid squirted through his hand and
onto her dress.
Oh, hump me! Ooooh, yes, yes!
Maura cringed in horror. The mist over her head lifted. A
rage, deeper than she'd ever known before, erupted within her
whole body. She clawed at the man's face with her jagged nails.
He let out a piercing scream as strips of skin were ripped from
his face. Again and again she tore at him. When he instinctively
put his hands up to protect himself, she clawed at his head, his
arms, his body. Animal sounds were coming from her mouth,
and her lips were covered with foam.
Something inside her was telling her to stop, that she was
going to kill him if she didn't, but she couldn't stop. This beast
289

had defiled her. Her eyes were glaring with rage. Only Martin!
Only Martin!
The man stood up and tried to run. His vision blurred by the
salty blood that was pouring into his eyes from the head wounds,
he stumbled and fell across the seats. He got up, groping blindly
in front of him. As Maura tried to grab him by his coat, he fell
headfirst over the brass railing of the balcony. He let out a short
yelp. A second later there was a thud, then screams from the few
customers that were seated in the orchestra.
Maura looked over the railing. The man lay between the aisles,
and his feet were dangling in a strange position over a worn velvet
seat. There was no movement, but painful moans were coming
from his mouth. Several frightened people ran out of the side
"Exit" doors. The manager, holding a flashlight, went over to
the stilled figure. He looked down at him then looked up, shining
the light in Maura's direction. She covered her face with her
hands and raced up the aisle until she got to the balcony stairs.
An usher was coming up the steps. Maura ran down past him.
Do it to me, Jack. You 're so big. Soooo big!
She pushed open the tainted brass railing on the glass door
and raced out into the streets. There was an ache in her rib cage,
but she wouldn't stop running until she was several blocks away
from that theater.
When there was no strength left in her, Maura grabbed onto
a lamppost and bent down, fighting desperately to catch her
breath. Her throat felt as if it were on fire. When she finally
looked up, she saw that dawn, the color of steel wool, was just
rising over the city.
Where am I? she thought.
She glanced up at the street sign. Van Ness Avenue. That was
good because Van Ness turned into Highway 101 further north.
She needed 101 to get to Napa. Then she noticed the wet, sticky
substance on her skirt and her stomach churned in disgust. Again
that feeling of rage. Fucking animal! I hope I killed him! She
grabbed a newspaper that swirled by her and frantically wiped
the semen from her clothes.
A shudder went through her as she suddenly remembered that
she left the tote with her money in the theater. She put her hands
in the pockets of her sweater and prayed that the pills were still
there. They were. But what was she going to do without money?
How could she get to Napa? Maura leaned against the post and
shut her eyes. Please, just let me die!
290

She reached for the vial containing the Placidyls. So easy, she
thought. Lafayette Park was only a couple of blocks away. Find
a deserted spot in the foliage where no one goes. Swallow those
flaming red beauties. It will all be over in less than an hour.
Maura took the vial from her pocket and twisted off the child-
proof cover. While pouring out a handful of tablets, she suddenly
heard a noise and looked up. What she saw over by the street
corner brought tears to her eyes: an old pickup truck with wooden
sides was parked against the curb. A dark Mexican with a pencil-
thin mustache and ripped Levi's was jacking up the front right
end while another man with long sideburns was taking out the
spare tire from the back. They pulled off the flat and began re-
placing it with the good one.
Tears stung her eyes as she began walking over to them. When
she got closer, she could see a woman in the back of the pickup
cradling a baby in her arms. A small girl, about twelve, with
blunt Indian features, was also in the back. They stared at her as
she came toward them.
Then she could smell the familiar odor coming from the truck,
and the tears ran freely down her face. It was the pungent, thick
aroma of fermented grapes.
These people were field-workers, and the nose of their truck
was pointing toward the north. They were going to the wineries,
probably to pick the late harvest.
Take me with you! Oh, please God, take me with you!
Then the little girl smiled at her. Then one of the men holding
the lug nuts looked up from the wheelbase and touched his straw
hat with his greasy hand in greeting.
Maura smiled back, and she could taste the salt of her own
tears in her open mouth.
291

Chapter Thirty-seven
_A
t eleven-thirty the next morning Charlie picked Rena
up at the Napa airport. When they saw each other, they
hugged tightly.
"Want some breakfast?" he asked as he breathed in her fa-
miliar smell.
"No," she said, breaking away. "I would, however, like to
pay a visit to Edmond Farnsworth."
They had talked on the phone last night.
"Let's go," he said.
They drove the short distance to Edmond's office.
The middle-aged secretary at Farnsworth's high-tech winery
told Charlie and Rena that Edmond was not in today because of
a cold.
"Gee, that's too bad," Rena said.
Charlie looked at Rena. She was tired, but he could tell adren-
aline was flowing through her veins.
"Yes. He's been living on decongestants. He could barely
swallow, his throat's so sore."
When they got back in the Rover, Charlie touched Rena on
the shoulder and said, "Do you know where this guy lives?"
"Somewhere off of Dry Creek Road in Heraldsburg. Simon
told me his house would look terrific sliding off a Malibu cliff
during a rainstorm."
Ten minutes later they drove up to the white, square monolith
on top of a hill. Old Simon was right on about this place, Charlie
thought; it was pure Southern-California hip. The trim on the
large stucco house was turquoise and peach, the hot colors of
this year. Bubbled windows, resembling NASA space helmets,
bulged out from all sides like cysts.
Rena parked the Rover off to the side of the road. They got
out and walked the twenty feet to the house. The sun reflected
292

off the white stucco, hurting Charlie's eyes, and he wished he
had brought his sunglasses with him.
When Rena pushed the pearl button of the bronze chime it
played the first two bars of "Buttons and Bows." Charlie looked
at Rena and smirked.
A black housekeeper, dressed in a cotton uniform with white
lace, answered the door. "Is Mr. Farnsworth at home?" Rena
asked.
The woman's uncertain eyes quickly darted from Charlie to
Rena. "Yes, ma'am. Did you have an appointment?"
"No, but it's important that we talk to him."
A wary look came over her face. "I'm sorry, but Mr. Farns-
worth is not feeling very well. He's sleeping."
"Is Mrs. Farnsworth here then?" Rena asked patiently.
"No ma'am. She went to the club for tennis lessons. Can I
give them a message?"
Rena took a deep breath, then said, "Would you please tell
Mr. Farnsworth that I'm Simon Halbrook's daughter, and that I
know all about Riverside Hospital."
"Simon's daughter. . . Riverside Hospital. I'll tell him," she
said, closing the door.
"Do you think he'll bite?" Charlie asked her as they made
their way back to the car.
"He has no choice," she said.
They drove the rest of the way in silence.
Simon's manservant approached Rena just as she entered the
house. "Your father has taken your daughter to Palo Alto with
him. He told me to tell you that they'd be back later this eve-
ning."
Rena smiled. Perhaps the fracture between them was begin-
ning to knit together.
The servant continued. "Oh yes, a Mr. Farnsworth called for
you. He'd like you to phone him as soon as possible.'' He handed
her the telephone number on a slip of paper.
Rena looked nervously at Charlie.
"I guess he bit," he said, winking at her.
They went into the den. She picked up the phone, took a long
nervous breath, then dialed.
Farnsworth's sick, raspy voice answered. "Hello?" he said
weakly.
"Edmond, this is Rena Halbrook."
293

There was a long pause on the other end. Finally he said, "I
heard you wanted to see me."
He tried sounding jovial, but she could hear the anxiousness
in his voice. She cleared her throat trying to hide her own jitters.
"I need to talk to you about Riverside Hospital," she said.
"I'd certainly like to talk to you about that." He sounded
cautious. "Would it be asking too much if you came back here
again? We'll have lunch on the patio. It's only a ten-minute
drive."
She looked at Charlie. "Yes, it's possible," she said. "I'd like
to bring the man who was with me."
"No, I want to talk just with you," he quickly stated.
Again she looked at Charlie. He had his ear to the phone and
shook his head, no.
"Yes, I'll meet with you alone," she answered Farnsworth.
Charlie closed his eyes and groaned.
"I'll be at your house in a few minutes," she said.
"Good." Edmond sounded relieved. "I think you can under-
stand my need for privacy."
Rena hung up. Charlie punched the pillow on the feather down
couch. "Thanks," he said, pissed.
"I couldn't take the chance, Charlie. Farnsworth won't talk if
I go with you. Mental illness is an embarrassment with most
people."
He put his hands on her shoulders. "This old man may be
more than just an embarrassment. The FBI is one hundred feet
down the road sweating their asses off in a two-by-four van. Let
me talk to them."
"No," she said moving away from him and toward the door.
"I'll be back in an hour."
She was out the door before Charlie could say anything more
to try and change her mind. He stood there until he heard the
engine of the Rover and then the crunch of gravel as Rena drove
down the hill. "Goddamn it!" he screamed, kicking the edge of
the antique couch, putting a chip in its mahogany leg. No, he
couldn't let her go alone. Not after what she told him about this
Clurman creep.
He rushed over to the window and looked outside for another
car. There were several rows of automobiles belonging to the
employees over in the winery's parking lot. Then he saw the butt
of Simon's Mercedes in the garage by the side of the chateau. He
glanced in the direction of the white circular pad; the helicopter
294

was gone. Simon must have used it to take Cathy to Palo Alto,
he thought.
Charlie ran into the kitchen and found Simon's manservant.
His sleeves were rolled up and he was sitting at the kitchen table
polishing the silver. "Do you have the keys to the Mercedes in
the garage?" Charlie asked tensely.
Simon Halbrook told the old man this morning not to cater to
Charlie if he came back to the house. He was just about to tell
the man standing over him that he didn't have the keys when he
saw the somber look in Charlie's eyes. Instinctively the servant
knew he'd better keep his mouth shut and just give him what he
wanted. If he didn't this grim-faced man looked like he would
rip the kitchen apart trying to find them. He got up, shuffled
quickly over to the pantry, and opened the door. Inside there
were several sets of keys on hooks. He took the ones with the
Mercedes emblem and quietly dropped them into Charlie's wait-
ing hand.
Without saying thanks, Charlie ran through the marbled hall-
ways and out the front door.
The garage was a large structure, almost as big as an airplane
hangar. It housed Simon's priceless car collection, which in-
cluded a '65 Shelby Cobra, a '52 Cunningham Continental, and
a '48 Kurtis. All kept in mint cherry condition, never driven,
and worth a bloody fortune.
Charlie walked out of the bright sunlight and into the darkness
of the huge carport. He went around to the driver's door of the
Mercedes. As he was about to stick the key in the lock, he heard
a noise in back of him—the sound of footsteps scraping gently
over concrete. He turned around, just in time to see the fiat, rusty
metal from a spade coming directly toward his face. His in-
stincts, honed in the streets of Brooklyn and 'Nam, made him
duck. The shovel crashed into the door window a half-inch from
his ear, shattering glass and sending slivers into Charlie's face.
The pain felt like tiny razor cuts, and his arm automatically came
up to his eyes to protect them. He threw himself to the floor and
rolled over until he felt the rubber tire of the Mercedes.
Again the shovel came flying in his direction, this time hitting
the rear fender right over his head. Charlie wanted to open his
eyes, but he could feel the powdered glass clinging to his lids.
He brushed at them trying to clear his face as he rolled over
trying to get away from the spade. Then he felt something hard
295

against his body. Reaching out, he touched the polished frame
of the Kurtis.
Shit! he was trapped between both cars.
There was no choice; he had to see if he was to survive. The
glass clung onto his brow, his lashes, but he opened his eyes
anyway. For a split second he saw something red hovering above
him, like the color of a cable sweater; then the shovel was coming
down at him again. Charlie moved his head to the right, but it
was too late. The first thing he felt was the swish of air as the flat
end came down, then excruciating pain in his right temple. There
was a wet, tickling sensation on the side of his face from the
blood pouring out of the wound.
Again Charlie tried opening his eyes; except this time he
couldn't. For a brief second he smelled his blood intermixing
with the odor of oil, grease, and rubber coming from the garage.
Then the smell was gone and there was nothing.
Chapter Thirty-eight
_R
ena rang Edmond's doorbell. This time the chimes played
"Moon River." In the distance she could see Blythe lob-
bing tennis balls with a good-looking young man in their private
court across from their Olympic-sized swimming pool. Why was
she here? She was supposed to be at the club.
The white tennis outfit Blythe was wearing darkened her tan
to the color of deep mahogany. Her body was tight and lithe-
some. Rena watched her serve and hit an ace, then scream with
delight. The young man, as tan as she was, wore a McEnroe
bandanna around his forehead. He threw up his racquet in mock
disbelief and moaned. They both laughed.
Why was she here? Damn! She took a deep breath, trying to
calm her nerves. She had hoped to be alone with Edmond.
The door opened. This time it was not the maid who an-
swered, but Edmond Farnsworth himself.
296

She was shocked by his appearance. He was bent over and his
skin and eyeballs were the color of dry mustard. Wiping his red
nose with a used, crumbled tissue he held in his liver-spotted
hand, he said, "Come in. Come in." He was wearing a white
terry bathrobe with his initials on the breast pocket.
She went inside.
He turned around and shuffled unsteadily into the living room.
Rena followed behind. "Excuse my appearance," he said. "I
caught this damn cold a couple of weeks ago, and I can't seem
to shake it."
The living room was painted a pale peach and was sunken two
steps. Large, white silk couches covered most of the bleached-
oak floors. The abstract paintings, like hazy pastels, hung on the
walls and complemented the color of the house. The room re-
minded Rena of a display window in a trendy furniture store on
Robertson Boulevard. There was nothing in here that felt warm
and lived-in; nothing about it that said people laughed, ate, and
made love here.
"Have a seat," he said, blowing his nose.
Rena sat down on the couch, and Edmond took the matching
silk chair. When he crossed his legs, Rena noticed that he wasn't
wearing pajama bottoms underneath the robe. His legs were very
white, spindly, and freckled.
Rena took a deep breath to stem her nervousness and said,
"Edmond . . ."
He waved his hand at her, as if to say let's drop the pretenses.
"What about Riverside Hospital?" he said sharply. His lips and
jaw were impulsively moving, almost as if he had no control over
them.
"You were a patient there for several months in 1989."
Edmond didn't say anything. He just stared at her with yel-
lowed eyes. His cheeks continued to move spasmodically, and
he licked his dry, cracked lips.
"You were treated for deep depression."
"You must be mistaken. I had a triple bypass in 1989." His
voice was nasal from his stuffed nose.
"I don't think so. Veins would have been taken from your legs
and transplanted in your chest for a triple bypass. That would
have left deep scars on your legs. I see no scars, Edmond," she
said, pointing to his naked calf that was crossed over his leg.
Edmond quickly uncrossed his legs and tucked them back into
297

his robe. "What is it you want?" There was something resigned
about his tone.
"It was you that went to the county recorder's office in Santa
Rosa."
"What?" He flinched.
"The clerk there said that a man your age was inquiring about
the McKinney property. I'm also looking right now at the phys-
ical symptoms he was talking about—shaking; unable to walk
straight; yellow, jaundiced skin."
"What the hell are you saying?" He was aggravated.
"You're on some form of chlorpromazine or antidepressant—
perhaps both. Aren't you?"
"What?"
"What kind of medication are you taking? Thorazine? What
else?"
"I don't see . . ."
"You're having adverse side effects, and I strongly suggest that
you discontinue using them and get yourself some proper help.''
"What are you talking about?" he said angrily, wiping his
nose with the tissue.
"You don't have a cold, Edmond. A stuffy nose and a sore
throat are reactions to some tranquilizers and antidepressants. So
is jaundice. That's why your skin is so yellow. You have no mus-
cle control in your face, and you can't even walk a straight line.
If you don't stop taking these drugs, there's a possibility that you
could go into convulsions or a coma. Who prescribed the med-
ications that you're taking? Dr. Tompson at Riverside?"
"No, I. . ."
"Rena!" a voice said from behind, interrupting Edmond.
She turned around. Standing at the French doors leading in
from the tennis court was Blythe. Her white blouse was soaked
with perspiration. She was holding the tennis racquet and wiping
the sweat from her face with a terry wristband she wore on her
arm. She smiled at Rena. Her hazel eyes were animated. "What
a lucky break that I decided to have a tennis lesson here rather
than the club. Why didn't you let me know that you were coming?
I would have canceled it."
Rena stood up and tried to match Blythe's smile but couldn't.
She could feel her heart racing in her chest like it was trying to
find a way to get out. "I came to talk with Edmond," she said,
staring at the tall, slim woman standing in front of her.
"Oh," she said, walking over to the bar. "Business?"
298

"No, not business," Rena replied.
Blythe took a glass from the shelf and filled it with ice. ' 'Would
you like a drink?''
"No, thank you," Rena said.
Pouring Evian into her glass, she quickly gulped it down and
then refilled it again. "Would you like one, sweetheart?" she
asked Edmond, gesturing to a clean glass.
Edmond, mouth twitching, looked away from her and shook
his head.
"Maybe I should leave you two alone?" Blythe said, looking
at her husband and then at Rena.
"That would be fine," Rena said, trying to control her voice.
Blythe looked at her through half-shut eyes. "No, on second
thought, I'll stay." Her eyes were almost playful, and again she
broke into a smile. "Does this talk have anything to do with
me?"
"I'm not really sure yet. I was just telling Edmond that he
should stop taking the chlorpromazine and antidepressant med-
ication and seek proper help. He's having a terrible reaction to
them. What do you think?"
The smile on Blythe's face disappeared into a tight, thin line,
but her eyes still had that amused look in them. She walked over
to where Edmond was sitting, put her hand lovingly on his shoul-
der and squeezed it. "It's all right, darling," she said to him.
Then she looked up at Rena and asked, "What are we talking
about?"
"Let's start first with Riverside Hospital. Why lie about Ed-
mond being there?"
She rubbed her husband's back. He was now hunched over in
the chair. She said, "Why do you think? Edmond sold his com-
puter business two years ago because of the pressure. He was
suffering from a miid form of depression and admitted himself
to Riverside for help."
"That's not true," Edmond said very slowly with anger. "I
tried to kill myself, and my family had me committed."
Blythe glared at him and removed her hand from his back.
"There was no reason to tell her that."
"No?" he said, smiling. "Why not? We have nothing to hide,
do we?"
Even in his slurred speech Rena could pick up the sarcasm.
"No," she said looking hard at Rena. "We don't have any-
thing to hide. After Edmond left Riverside, he sold his business
299

and bought the winery. Wine was what he cared about most in
this world. That's what he should have been doing all along. He
built Farnsworth Wines into a profitable business in the space of
one year. He's thinking of going public with the company. How
much do you think the stock would be worth if Wall Street knew
that the chairman of the board of Farnsworth Wines suffered from
a severe mental illness and that he was suicidal? Now can you
understand why we didn't advertise his sickness?"
"Yes, I can. Riverside makes a fortune off their patients from
this form of subterfuge." All of a sudden this was all beginning
to make sense. Rena took a deep breath and thought carefully
about the next thing she was going to say. It was a long shot.
Right or wrong she decided to go for it. "How did you two really
meet, Blythe?"
"What?" she blustered.
"You were working at Riverside when you met, weren't you?''
Blythe put her hand back on Edmond's shoulder and twisted
the terry cloth robe in her fingers. "So?"
"You were an attendant there. In fact, you worked at that
hospital for almost twenty years. You were also an attendant
when Maura McKinney was a patient, right?"
"I don't remember." Her lips were trembling, and there was
an angry look in her eyes.
"Oh, I think you do. You look a little different than the way
Dr. Tompson described you and you changed your name, but it's
you all right! What did you do to yourself? Have a face-lift? Lose
weight? A tummy tuck? What? You look fifteen or twenty years
younger than you really are." She saw Blythe's eyes and won-
dered how smart it had been coming here alone. She turned to
Edmond. "Why were you so interested in purchasing Maura's
property?"
"Was I?" he said. There was a hint of a bitter smile around
Edmond's dry mouth. He was enjoying watching his wife being
confronted.
' 'Yes. You also sent several letters to Donald Kaplow, Maura's
attorney, inquiring about the sale of the property. Except you
used the name Clurman Enterprises."
Edmond laughed, shaking his head. Turning to his wife, he
said, "You think you're so smart, don't you? Nobody will ever
suspect." He licked his dry lips. "My God!" He laughed again.
"Shut up!" she screamed at Edmond. She moved away from
300

him and glared at Rena, her fists curled up. "How did you know
that Edmond used the name Clurman Enterprises?"
Rena didn't know how far she wanted to go with this. Blythe
was not supposed to have been here. Except she was, and there
was nothing she could do about it now. Blythe was a sociopath-
there was no doubt in her mind about that. The phoniness she
had always felt about Blythe was now making sense. Sociopaths
don't have feelings the way normal people do. They mimic voice
inflections and act out emotions so they'll seem normal to the
rest of society. Well, let's see how far our sociopath will let me
take this, Rena thought to herself, taking a deep breath to gather
up her nerve. "Clurman is your maiden name. I found it in
Maura's file at Riverside Hospital. I searched through it to see
who was taking care of Maura during her incarceration there.
Julian Clurman. That was in nineteen seventy-four. I then sifted
through the files until I came to nineteen eighty-nine, the year
you claimed Edmond had his bypass surgery. Again your name
popped up—this time as his nurse. Before I left, I had a talk with
Dr. Tompson about you. He said they let you go. That you had
been physically abusing some of the patients."
"That's a lie!" she screamed. "Tompson hated me. I knew
too much about what was going on at the hospital, and he wanted
me out of the way. He stole money, forged checks! He was a pig.
Always trying to put his hands on me!'' Her voice was shrill, but
her eyes had a dead look to them.
"That's not why they wanted you out. The hospital received
too many complaints about you. They questioned your stability,''
Rena said.
Blythe quickly changed the subject. "We have a right to pri-
vacy!" she said with a guttural voice. "My husband was also in
his rights to inquire about the McKinney property. There's no
law against that!"
"What's on that land that makes you want it so badly?" Rena
asked Edmond.
He snickered. "Ask my lovely wife. She's the one who was
hounding me to buy it. I could care less about the property.
Always badgering me about it. . . never letting up. This medi-
cine she keeps giving me. . .1 don't even know what I'm taking.
Sometimes I can't even think straight." He held his face in his
hands; his fingers quivering uncontrollably.
Rena turned to his wife. Blythe's hazel eyes, dead as coal,
stared back at her. Yes, a sociopath! "Maura's ancestor, Liam
301

O'Connor, was a gold miner. Is that what's on the property? Is
it gold?" Blythe didn't answer her, and suddenly Rena knew she
was right. "There is gold, isn't there! How did you know about
it? Did Maura tell you that? Did she tell you about it when she
was a patient at Riverside? She opened up at the hospital and told
you and Dr. Tompson everything. Wait a minute! Maura couldn't
have known there was gold on the property, or she would have
done something about it. Maura never cared about the vineyards,
and it would have been all right with her if they were destroyed
to get the gold out. If Maura didn't tell you then how did you
know?"
Again Blythe said nothing. She stared at Rena with hateful
eyes, and her lips were curled in a sneer.
Suddenly Rena got a chill down her spine.' 'If Maura told you
everything about herself, then you knew about her doll, Jasmine
Dawn, and also about the diary of her ancestor, the Baron de
Montret."
Edmond looked up at his wife and said, "What is she talking
about?"
Not answering, Blythe scowled at him.
So Edmond didn't have anything to do with this, Rena sud-
denly realized. "Weren't you afraid of someone finding out who
you were?" she said to Blythe. "I'm sure Dr. Frawley would
have recognized you—even with your changes. He was also fa-
miliar with Riverside Hospital and the staff since he's the one
who took Maura up there and worked with Dr. Tompson all these
years." Then it hit Rena: Frawley was dead. How could he iden-
tify anybody?
Blythe slowly walked toward her.
Christ, was Frawley murdered? By who? Blythe was with
Edmond at Mustards Grill the night he died. Maura couldn't
possibly have been in Napa.
Hey, wait a minute!
Then the pieces started coming together in her head, and Rena
suddenly realized that she made a big mistake in coming here
alone. A very big mistake.
302

Chapter Thirty-nine
_T
he concrete ground slid over his cheek, scraping it raw.
Bits of rock and debris were cutting into his skin. Someone
was dragging him by his feet. Then the smell of dampness and
sweet wine fermenting. Then the feel of hard stone against his
body. His head was bouncing down rough stairs now, bruising
his ear. The smell of dank air was getting stronger. The sound
of dripping water. Who's dragging me? Charlie thought through
a fogged brain as the blackness closed in around him again.
He awoke in darkness. The ground was wet and hard. In the
distance he could hear footsteps fading away. His body ached
and his face felt raw. When he touched his cheek with his hand,
it stung badly. His mind was disjointed and his forehead burned.
Where am I? he thought. Everything is so fucking dark.
Charlie sat up. His clothes were soaked and smelled of wine.
He put his hand to his forehead and felt the wound from the
shovel. It wasn't deep, but it would require stitches. Lucky I had
moved my head when it came down or I would have taken the
blow full-force. That thought made Charlie cringe.
He reached out and felt the rough wall behind him. Then he
felt wooden casks stacked up over to the side. It was a wine
cellar, he realized. Whose wine cellar? Who dragged me down
here?
Then he remembered the footsteps. The sound had come from
the right. Charlie stood up. A rush of dizziness overtook him.
He waited until the feeling passed, then slowly groped his way
in the direction of the sound.
He bumped against a long table and several wooden cases of
wine while following the configuration of the tunnel. In a few
minutes he saw a glimmer of sunlight in front of him. Ignoring
the pain in his bruised legs, he limped over toward it.
The light was coming from up above him now. There were
303

stone steps in front of him, and he took them two at a time. An
iron gate stopped him from going any farther. It's some kind of
a cave that's made into a wine cellar. Charlie shook the gate,
but it was locked. He could see trees and bushes outside.
Shit! Where the fuck am I?
Charlie screamed, "Hey . . . anybody! Get me out of here!"
He shook the gate with all his might, making it rattle loudly. He
screamed over and over again, until he heard a sound coming
from the other side. Footsteps were shuffling slowly toward him.
Charlie backed away from the gate, adrenaline raging through
his big frame.
Then he saw a shadow of a man, then the man himself, and
Charlie sighed with relief. It was Simon's manservant. The old
man put his head up to the gate and peeked in.
"It's me," Charlie said. "Where am I?"
"In Mr. Halbrook's wine cellar. Mr. Halbrook would be very
disturbed if he knew you were in here."
"Do you have the key to this thing?"
"Yes, it's in the cupboard. I hope you didn't touch any of his
wines. Some of them are very rare."
Charlie grasped the bars in his hands and put his face close to
where the old servant stood. "Get-the-keys-and-get-me-the-fuck-
out-of-here!" Charlie shouted, punctuating every word.
The old man said, "You don't have to yell, sir. I'll be back in
a minute. Please don't touch the '52 Le Romanee Jadot. It's Mr.
Halbrook's favorite." With that he turned and slowly marched
back to the house for the keys.
Chapter Forty
_T
he old pickup truck with the wooden sides turned off Route
29 in St. Helena and drove to the back of the Exxon station
on the comer of Pope Street. The two Mexican men got out of

the front seat, went around to the back, and let down the wood
slats.
Maura was asleep in the back of the truck, her head resting
on a muslin sack filled with old clothes. The Mexican woman
was breast-feeding the infant, and the older girl was reading an
Archie and Veronica comic book in Spanish.
The man with the ripped jeans and thin mustache leaped up
on the bed of the truck and shook Maura. He had to joggle her
several times before she awoke. Her face was lemon-colored and
clammy sweat clung to her brow. She opened her eyes and saw
the man looking down on her. Slowly she sat up. Her head felt
fuzzy. She also felt cold, the kind that cut deep into the marrow
and that no amount of warmth could make go away.
Oh, God, I'm real sick, she thought.
The Mexican helped her down from the truck. She thanked
him and stood on the sidewalk, shivering, as she watched them
drive off. Before she fell asleep, the woman with the baby had
told her in Spanish that her husband, the one with the thin mus-
tache, and his brother had jobs picking the late harvest in the
southern part of Napa. They agreed to drop her off in St. Helena.
While standing there, Maura realized her skirt was damp and
she smelled of urine. She had wet herself. Yes, she was sick, and
the fever refused to leave her aching body. She grasped onto the
back of the garage and touched her moist head.
Where am I? She looked around. Suddenly she recognized the
place.
I'm so close to my home. Spring Mountain Road was only a few
streets down. Five miles more up the mountain and she would be
home. Except she knew she could never go back there again. Not
ever. Not anymore. Once again she touched the pockets of her
sweater to make sure the pills were still there. They were.
With an unsteady gait, she walked over to Highway 29 and
looked north. How many miles was it to the Alexander Valley?
That's where Rena was. Too many, she thought. But she had
come so far. No, she couldn't quit. Not now. Maybe she could
get a ride. It was only twenty minutes away by car.
Then the road started to swirl and she could feel herself fall-
ing. She was standing next to a grocery-store window and
grabbed onto its rim for support. Slowly she let herself slide
gently down on one knee. The chills were stronger now, and she
felt nauseous. Oh please dear sweet God, let me make it! I've
come so far!
305

* * *
Henry Jenkins was putting away cans of Campbell's chicken
noodle soup, chunky style, on the top shelf in the grocery store
when he happened to gaze out the window. He turned his head,
just in time to see the pale woman with dark hair and sunglasses
fall to the ground. Jenkins, who had celebrated his sixty-eighth
birthday two days before, climbed down ,the ladder as fast as he
could and rushed outside.
The woman was down on one knee, as if in a praying position,
with her fingertips touching her bowed head. Jenkins knew she
was sick and not genuflecting. Not thinking about his bum knee
with the shrapnel still in it from a World War II Japanese sniper's
bullet, he knelt down next to her and put his hand on her shoul-
der. "You okay, lady?"
Maura moved her hand away from her face and slowly looked
up. When she saw who it was, she quickly turned away. She had
known Mr. Jenkins all her life. She and her father had bought
their groceries from him. It had been years since they last saw
each other, and hopefully he didn't recognize her. Bracing her-
self against the wall, she slowly got up off the ground. Her feet
were wobbly, but she had to get away from him, he mustn't see
her face. Keeping her body turned in the other direction, she
mumbled something about slipping and that she would be fine.
Jenkins stood on the sidewalk watching her weave down the
street. He scratched at the white stubble on his chin, thinking.
Oh, her hair was a different color and she had her eyes covered
by those dark glasses, but he knew who she was all right. He
may be getting old, but goddamn if he would ever forget the
prettiest girl that ever grew up in St. Helena. The TV said that
she was some kind of sexual freak—an abnormality they called
it—but he didn't believe them. Ever since Cronkite retired, the
news on the TV had gone straight downhill by showing all that
titillating stuff. Jenkins watched her for a few more minutes until
she passed a clump of trees that blocked his view. He then went
back into his store. He had always liked Maura, but the FBI man
on television said that if anyone saw her that they should imme-
diately call the police. Jenkins, being a man of the law, did ex-
actly that. He dialed Pinky's number. A police rookie, Ricky
Belson, answered and said that Pinky was away from the office.
"Well, when you see him, tell him that Maura McKinney, as
big as life, is walkin' north down Highway 29."
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"You're putting me on!" the rookie said, jumping out of his
seat.
"Ricky, the only place I ever put you on was over my knee
fifteen years ago when I caught you stealing a box of pretzels
from my store. Now you give the chief the message, you hear?"
After hanging up on old man Jenkins, Ricky threw up his arms
and let out a squeal followed by a "hallelwMwjah maamaa!" His
freckled face was flushed with elation. Of all the lucky things to
happen to him. Maura McKinney was ten minutes away and
good ol' fat-ass Pinky was nowhere around to get all the credit.
He brushed back his long, dark, curly hair with his hand, put
on his hat, grabbed the single-barrel, twelve-gauge shotgun from
off the shelf, and ran out the door to the Ford Bronco with the
police insignia on its sides.
As he put the clutch in reverse, Ricky giggled, thinking that
by six o'clock tonight the whole damn country would see him
on television and know his name.
Chapter Forty-one
killed all those people, didn't you?" Rena sud-
M denly said to Blythe. Her throat was dry from fear. "It
wasn't Maura. It never was Maura."
Blythe stopped walking toward Rena. Standing several feet
away from her, she hissed, "How dare you say something like
that to me!"
From the corner of her eye, Rena could see Edmond sitting
on the chair, licking his parched lips. He looked confused and
frightened. "How did you do it?" Rena asked. "I know you
were never here when the murders took place in the other states.
You seemed to always be out of town. When that truck driver
was mutilated in Washington, you said you were in Palm Springs.
307

I believed you because of the tan you had when I saw you again
at Mustards Grill."
"Ha! You were never in Palm Springs," Edmond said, trying
to get out of the chair. His hands shook so badly that he slipped
back down again.
"Shut up, you idiot!" she snapped at Edmond. "You have no
proof!" she said turning back to Rena. Her face was distorted
with anger, but her eyes remained dead.
"She wasn't in Palm Springs. I was there alone. She said to
tell everybody that she went there with me, but it wasn't true."
Edmond waved a finger at her.
"I said shut up!"
"I won't shut up," he yelled back. "You told me that you had
to go up to Washington to visit your sick mother. You said you
didn't want anybody to know about it because you hated sym-
pathy. I believed you like a fool. I know you're seeing someone
else!"
"Damn you!" she shrieked at him.
"No, damn you\'' A spiteful smile played across his quavering
lips, then he turned to Rena and said, "When she got back from
Washington she was as white as a ghost. Probably from spending
all that time under the sheets with her lover," he jeered. "She
has a tanning machine and body-building paraphernalia that she
uses down in the cellar. That's where she spent the first two days
after she got back. Look at that body! It's not hers. Cost me a
bloody fortune with all the plastic surgery she had done!"
"Stop it!" she screamed.
"What the hell for? You're the devil! You broke my arm at
Riverside. It was no accident. I hated myself for falling in love
with you!" he wailed back.
"You may have a lover but that's not the reason you went to
Washington,'' Rena said to her. "You went up there and to Idaho
to kill and then to make sure the murders were blamed on Maura.
You did the same thing in Los Angeles two days ago. You knew
everything there was to know about her—all her hidden secrets,
all her fears. You were one of a handful of people that knew she
was a true hermaphrodite. When she was a patient at the hospital
I'm sure she even told you about her ancestor, the Baron de
Montret. Maybe she even mentioned where the diary was kept.
Did you read it?"
Blythe stared at her and said nothing.
' 'Was that when you decided to commit the same type of mur-
308

ders like the ones in France? You spent years at a psychiatric
hospital. You understood how the mind worked as well as any
psychiatrist. The authorities would believe that Maura was a crazy
hermaphrodite like de Montret and reenacting her ancestor's
crimes."
Blythe still said nothing, but her face was taut with hate.
"You killed all those people after you found out that there was
gold somewhere on her land. First you pestered Edmond to buy
the property, except Maura wouldn't sell it. I'll bet anything that
you even checked to see if Maura had a will. You found out that
the property of a convicted murderer would have to be sold or
auctioned off in order to make payments on wrongful death suits
filed by the families of the victims. Something also tells me that
you would have outbid everybody at that auction because only
you knew what was on that land."
The deadness finally left Blythe's eyes; they were now bulging
and bouncing all over the room, as if they were incapable of
focusing on one thing. She ran her trembling hands through her
hair and said in her animated voice, "That's ridiculous! Maura
McKinney was identified by witnesses that stated she was in
those areas where the murders were committed. There was phys-
ical evidence that confirmed this. Vaginal fluid . . . sperm . . .
hair fibers . . . even her skin. The DNA tests taken proved pos-
itive beyond a doubt that they belonged to Maura. DNA tests
don't lie. All this was in the papers and on television! There's
even witnesses who'll swear that she had two different-colored
eyes. You'd look like a fool taking your suspicions to the police.''
Blythe's mouth cracked into a bellicose smile.
Rena shook her head. Yes, she would look like a fool taking
this to the police. "I don't know how you did it, but you did it
all right. You either did something to Maura to force her into
committing those murders or you impersonated her yourself.
Since the first is almost impossible to achieve, it had to be the
second."
"You'd have a hard time proving it!" Blythe shot back.
"Maybe there is a way," Rena said, nodding her head.
Blythe's face turned white.
"As you pointed out, she has two different-colored eyes.
Maura hid her affliction by wearing green contact lenses. You
probably did the same thing. Except the lenses you wore when
you took on Maura's identity were brown and blue.'' Rena could
see the glacial look on Blythe's face, and she knew she was right.
309

' 'An optometrist or an ophthalmologist had to have fitted you for
the lenses. They keep records. Even if you used a different name
when you bought them, I'm sure you could be identified. What
I don't understand is why you had to kill so many people. Was
it because you enjoyed what you did?"
"You bitch!" Again Blythe curled her hands into fists.
The adrenaline was flowing through Rena's body now. Had
she gone too far? There was no turning back now. She was close
to the door and could always get out if she had to. Looking at
Blythe, she said, "Except you couldn't have done this alone.
After Tomas Sanchez was killed next to the spring on Maura's
property, he was then carried to the vineyards. You're not strong
enough."
"Who helped you? Your lover? You're nothing but a whore!"
Edmond bellowed. He pulled himself up from the chair and
swung his twitching hand at Blythe's face. She easily sidestepped
him. He tripped over the coffee table and fell to the floor.
"You disgusting old pig!" she spat at him. She was now out
of control. "How I hated it when you touched me! Every time
you stuck your shriveled cock in me I wanted to puke. The only
way I could get through those times was by fantasizing about
those young men who worked for you. Every time you came in
me it was one of those filthy young Mexicans coming in me and
not you! God, no, not you! Never you!"
"And not your lover? I know all about him! You thought I was
blind, didn't you?" he roared back, lying on the floor.
"Yes! Him too! Him too! You vile, withering old bastard!"
Paralyzed by this display of raw hatred, Rena could only stand
there and watch. Blythe's anger was fierce, all-consuming. Her
face was a deep red and her features were contorted, giving the
appearance of a crazed animal.
Suddenly Blythe rushed over to the fireplace and picked up
the poker off the marble hearth. Glaring down at Edmond, she
raised it over his head. "You will never touch me again! Never
again!" she roared.
Rena watched in frozen horror. Using all her willpower to
make her body move, she ran over to Blythe just as the poker
was about to come down on Edmond's head. She grabbed the
top of it and tried to pull it free from Blythe's hand, but the rod
was slippery. Blythe easily pushed Rena away.
"Come on sweetie, go for it," Blythe said teasingly, circling
Rena, holding the poker with two hands out in front of her. She
310

was totally mad now. "What's the matter? Got no balls? Your
friend Maura has balls, doesn't she? One ball actually. You ought
to see it hanging down right next to her cunt. I used to have to
scrub her clean when I was her nurse because she was too crazy
to wash herself. What a monstrosity she was!"
Blythe let out a shrieking laugh that made Rena recoil. Her
face turned ugly with seething hate again; then she let out a
horrible yell and raced at Rena while swinging the rod. Rena
ducked just as the tool came around, slicing the air above her
head. Seeing that she was off-balance for a split second, Rena
pushed her with all her strength. The force sent Blythe spinning
to the ground next to Edmond. As she tried to get up, he grabbed
her arm but she smacked him in the face, forcing him to let go.
Sitting up on one knee, she hurled the poker at Rena.
Instinctively Rena put up her hand. The metal rod bounced
off her elbow. Searing pain surged through her arm.
Blythe got up off the floor. Her face was a deep red, and her
mouth was covered with foam. She was cursing, but the words
were low, monotonic, almost unintelligible. Rushing over to the
wall cabinet, she opened the top drawer and pulled out a 9mm
Beretta automatic.
Rena saw the gun in her hand. Heart pulsating, her mind
clogged with the kind of primitive terror that makes all animals
fight to survive, Rena raced for the front door. She could hear
Blythe screaming in back of her.
Rena pushed the door open and dashed over to the Rover. She
grabbed the door handle, then thought better of it; Blythe was
only a few feet in back of her and she would never be able to
make it inside the car in time. Instead, she continued running
down the graveled path toward the main road. There would be
cars on the highway, and this crazed woman wouldn't dare follow
her there.
"Cunt! Bitch!" Blythe screamed.
Rena turned around. Blythe was right in back of her standing
next to her car, the gun still in her hand. Fighting off the fear,
Rena tried running faster. The road was a hundred yards away.
She was gasping for breath, forcing herself to go faster.
Then she heard the sound of wheels crushing gravel in back
of her. Still running, she turned around. It was Blythe's Jeep
Wagoneer.
Damn! There was no way she could make the highway.
The four-wheeler was coming down on her fast. She could
311

hear the overhead branches that hung down from the madrona
trees above the road whipping against the windshield; the tires
spitting up dirt and rocks.
In the distance, Rena saw a black GMC truck coming up the
pathway toward her. She waved her arms frantically trying to
stop it. There was no time, she realized. Blythe's Jeep was only
a few feet in back of her. She leaped off the road just as the four-
wheeler roared past, the heavy metal fender nicking the back of
her leg. Rena toppled into the dense foliage and rolled down a
steep incline. Her face and body scraped against rocks and spiny
brush. Putting out her hands, she flailed away desperately, try-
ing to grab on to anything that would break her fell. Then her
fingers caught on to a young oak tree. Holding on with one hand,
she inched her way upward with the other, digging her nails deep
into the moist earth so she could get a firmer grasp. When she
had both hands around the tree, she looked up toward the road.
Blythe was standing on the top of the incline holding the fifiteen-
shot automatic pistol, and her two hands were wrapped around
the molded plastic grip. Her feet were spread apart like she knew
what she was doing, and the muzzle was pointing direcdy at
Rena.
A burst of fire flashed from the barrel followed by a loud
crack. Dirt splattered next to Rena's face. Another shot, then
another followed. Leaves and bits of rock flew into the air and
poured down onto her.
She couldn't stay here or she'd be killed. Glancing down the
slope, she saw the stone building of a small winery about twenty
feet below. She let go of the tree and tumbled down to the foothill
of the crest.
Two more shots rang out. She could feel the heat from one of
the bullets as it whizzed inches over her head.
Rena came to a stop in a mulch-covered ravine. She got up
and ran. The forest was dense here, and branches licked at her
arms and face. She pushed her way through the thick underbrush
following the buzzing, motorized noise coming from the winery.
The woods cleared; then she saw the brick building.
Another shot. Rena turned around. Blythe was making her
way down the incline.
Rena ran toward the building.
Where were the workers?
The gun fired again, this time chipping a piece of slate from
the stone wall next to her face. The bullet ricocheted down only
312

an inch from her foot. Rena ran around to the back of the build-
ing, away from Blythe's line of fire. She saw the thick wooden
door leading into the winery and tried the handle. Locked. Fran-
tically she kicked at the door. Then, using her foot as a lever,
she pulled again with all her might. It was no use; it wouldn't
open.
The buzzing noise! Where was it coming from? She looked
around and realized that it was the sound of a de-stemming ma-
chine that was located at the side of the building. She had heard
that sound many times before in her father's winery. Keeping her
head down, she rushed around to the other side. There it was!
The steel, corkscrew-shaped implement in the open cylindrical
casing was grinding and crushing the Riesling grapes and spew-
ing out the yellowish liquid into a vat.
But where the hell were the workers!
Then she realized that this small winery belonged to Edmond.
It was probably where he made his own private reserve. No won-
der Blythe wasn't afraid to fire the gun; she knew there'd be no
one here.
Rena heard a noise crashing through the trees on the other side
of the building, and she knew it was Blythe. There was also
another set of footsteps coming from farther away, over near the
slope. Someone else was approaching.
She was about to make a run for the trees again when she saw
Blythe coming around the house.
They saw each other at the same time. Sneering, Blythe raised
the gun to fire. Rena threw her body down behind the steel de-
stemmer. The bullet hit the cylindrical casing. Blythe fired two
more shots. They glanced off the steel tube, showering Rena with
sparks.
She had her face pressed against the wine-soaked ground, and
her hands were over her head. The next bullet will kill me. The
next one! Why did I come alone? Why didn't I listen to you,
Charlie? Oh, shit!
As she waited for the next round of bullets, she heard
twigs snapping and running footsteps coming through the
brush. Then Blythe screaming. The sound of scuffling. A
man shouting, "Enough! No more! No more!"
Rena lifted her face from the wet ground and looked.
The trough part of the de-stemmer blocked most of her view,
but she could see two pairs of feet: one set wearing work boots,
and the other, L. A. Gear women's tennis shoes. They were kick-
313

ing up dust. Rena moved her head past the cylinder and looked
up to see who the man was.
My, God, it's Harrison!
His body was locked together with Blythe's. "No more kill-
ing!" he screamed.
He had one arm pinned in back of her, and he was trying to
do the same thing to the hand with the gun. At first Blythe's face
had the look of astonishment; then it became callous once again,
and she tried to kick Harrison in the groin. He countered by
bringing up his knee to block hers. She was screaming unintel-
ligible words at him. Slowly he twisted the gun hand in back of
her.
"Bastard!" she shrieked.
Then the pistol went off.
The rage in her face turned to surprise then to anguish. Har-
rison loosened his grip. She moved slowly away and reached
around her back trying desperately to touch the horrible burning
sensation near her spine. Then she brought her hand up to her
face and saw the blood on her fingers. Her eyelids sagged and
her mouth dropped open. Harrison quickly took the gun that was
held loosely in her other hand. She stood there looking at him
through half-closed eyes for a moment; then her knees started to
buckle. Her weight carried her backward toward the open cyl-
inder.
Harrison reached out and grabbed her around the waist, but
the ends of her hair caught in the large, revolving corkscrew.
Slowly and methodically it began to suck her head into the churn-
ing blade.
Rena screamed in horror.
There was a hideous, high-pitched squeal coming from inside
the cylinder, and Blythe's legs, hanging off the sides, were kick-
ing frantically as she was being dragged in. The sound of bone
crunching, then the legs became lifeless.
Harrison dived for the power switch and turned the machine
off.
The dreadful screaming had already stopped. Rena looked up
toward the de-stemmer and saw Blythe's tanned, shapely legs
dangling in a grotesque position out of the machine. The yellow
juices from the crushed grapes that were being pushed through
the holes in the de-stemmer changed to a pale pink, then to a
pulpy red.
Rena turned away and gagged. Holding Blythe's gun by the
314

trigger guard in his index finger, Harrison walked unsteadily over
to her. He looked as if he was in shock; his face was pale and
unsettled. He dropped down next to Rena, put his arms around
her shoulders, and brought her face to his chest.
"Oh, Jesus! She's dead!" he murmured. His tone was raspy
and his breath heavy.
Rena moved her head away from Harrison's red cable sweater
and looked up at him. Her body stiffened, and she tried to push
him away. He took his arms from off her shoulders and looked
quizzically at the fear etched in her face.
"Hey, I might be wrong, but I think I just saved your life,"
he said.
Rena's eyes quickly scanned the area. Her mind began to race,
thinking about how she could get away from him. Yes, Blythe
had a lover and an accomplice all right, and she knew it was him.
Harrison's face congealed into a frown. He knew it wasn't
working. Still holding the fifteen-clip Beretta, he again put his
fingertips on Rena's shoulders and slid them up to the base of her
neck. This time, though, his hands felt rough, and the cold steel
of the gun's muzzle on her skin made her shiver.
"Goddamn it, you know, don't you?" he whispered.
Rena, her eyes wide open in fear, didn't respond.
She didn't have to. He already knew the answer.
Chapter Forty-two
_T
he air was clean, and the green of the vine-covered fields
hovering against the cloudless blue sky had the urgency of a
Van Gogh painting. Maura stood in the middle of the deserted
road looking up at the splashing, rainbow array of colors. A
smile hung on her face.
This was her valley.
This was her home.
She belonged here; she knew that now.
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Even though she wore a light sweater and the temperature in
the valley was barely fifty degrees, she felt hot and clammy.
Maura unbuttoned her sweater, took it off, and dropped it on the
road.
Where was her tote? she thought, looking around. Oh, yes,
she vaguely remembered; she left it somewhere in San Fran-
cisco. In some kind of theater. What kind? Did it matter? Not
anymore.
She had wet herself again while walking, but she didn't care
about that either.
Again she looked up at the sky and smiled. Tears moistened
her eyes. Home. Oh, God, finally home. I'm coming to you Mar-
tin. We '11 be together soon.
Ricky Belson saw her standing in the middle of the road the
second his Ford Bronco rounded the bend. His body tingled with
excitement. Never in his seven months on the force as a cop did
he think that he'd ever get a chance to bring down a serial killer.
Never in his wildest dreams!
He stopped the truck fifty feet from where she was standing,
grabbed the pump shotgun from the floor, and slowly got out of
the driver's seat.
What the fuck's with her? he thought, standing next to the
door. She's not even looking this way; she's just staring at nothing
and grinning like a goddamn fruitcake.
Because the wide brim of his hat partially blocked his view,
he took it off and threw it in the front seat. Slowly Ricky made
his way toward her, his shotgun gripped tightly in his trembling
hands.
Why the fuck doesn 't she see me?
When he was fifteen feet away, he tried to shake off the fear.
Clearing his throat, he spoke loudly like they told him to do at
the academy. "Hey, you! Put your hands on your head and drop
to the ground, or I' 11 blow you the fuck away!" The volume was
right, but he couldn't stop the quivering in his voice.
Maura heard the voice. It sounded like it was coming from
somewhere hundreds of feet underwater. Still smiling, she turned
her fevered head in its direction.
At first she could only make out different colors. Then her
vision became a little more focused, and she could see some
movement. Who is it? Is that a man standing there?
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Yes, it is a man! There is something in his hands and his mouth
is moving. He is saying something to me, but I can't understand
him.
Ricky didn't like this. He kept telling her to get down on the
ground, but she wasn't doing it. He licked his nervous lips. This
was not the way the academy said it was supposed to happen.
No, he didn't like this at all.
She looked up into his face. How beautiful he is. His hair. . .
long and curly like Martin's. Oh dear Lord! Is it? Yes, it is Mar-
tin!
"Martin! Oh God, Martin!" Her face glowed from happiness
as well as from the fever. She reached her arms out and started
walking toward him.
What the fuck is she saying? he thought, pointing the gun in
her direction. Who's Martin? "Hey you! I'm telling you for the
last time to get down!" He slid the pump underneath the barrel
that automatically loaded a cartridge in the chamber.
She heard it. Metal sliding on metal. Slick . . . slick.
That sound. That awful sound!
She stopped walking and grabbed her head in both hands.
Metal sliding against metal.
Now she remembered. All those years she had lived with that
sound in her head. Now she remembered! It was the sound of a
pump-action shotgun.
Slick. . . slick.
It was the noise she heard when she was dozing off in Martin's
room just before . . .
Slick. . . slick.
. . . That terrible explosion.
All those sounds from so long ago. They came rushing out of
her memory like a disjointed orchestra tuning up before a sym-
phony.
Slick . . . slick. Boooom! Then . . .
Then what?
Footsteps. Yes, footsteps! Heavy footsteps running down the
stairs.
Someone else was there.
Heavy footsteps running out of the house.
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Rushing to the window to see. My feet so warm from Martin's
blood on the floor. A shadow of someone running into the forest.
Heavy footsteps.
Heavy shadow.
Daddy?
It was Daddy!
Except. . .
NO! No, it wasn't. I wanted it to be you, because you always
told me how you wished I wasn't born! How you despised what
I was! But it wasn 'tyou, Daddy. Oh, no, it wasn't my daddy who
killed my Martin!
Heavy shadow.
What's she doing? Ricky thought to himself. Her eyes were
jutting out of their sockets, and she was banging the sides of her
head with her fists.
What the fuck is she doing?
His legs were trembling now. He felt like his lungs had shrunk,
and he had to pant in order to breathe. The palms of his hands
were sweating, which made the stock and pump of the shotgun
slippery. Forgetting that he had already loaded a cartridge in the
chamber, he pumped the gun once more.
Slick . . . slick.
That noise again!
Slick . . . slick.
She looked up at Martin. Except the face wasn't Martin's any-
more. Who was he?
Heavy footsteps.
Heavy shadow.
The infection had reached her brain now, curling its spiny
tentacles around the crevices of soft gray matter.
Who is he? His pockmarked face was leering at her, exposing
sharp, pointed teeth. Worms were crawling in and out of the pits
on his cheeks.
Who is he?
Heavy shadow.
Then she remembered who.
She let out a scream; a scream that came from the depths of
her soul. Then she rushed at him.
* * *
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Oh shit! Oh fucking shit!
"Stay back, lady, or I'll blow you away! Stay back or I'll do
it! I swear to fucking Christ I'll do it!"
She was running at him, yelling, calling him some name. He
couldn't understand what she was saying. Her face was gnarled
with rage.
Aw Jesus! Aw Jesus! his frightened mind kept repeating over
and over again as his twitching index finger wrapped itself around
the hair trigger.
Pinky roared down Highway 29 doing eighty-five. He honked
his horn and blared his siren, making the cars in front of him
move out of the way.
"That scumbag!" he said out loud, thinking of Ricky.
When he got back to the station, he found a note from him on
his desk saying that Maura was spotted walking down the high-
way and that he was going to get her.
"If that asshole kid touches one hair on her, I'll kill him!"
Just as he rounded the bend, he heard the blast. Then, like in
a slow-motion section of a movie, he saw a woman's body soar
in the air and come down like a rag doll in the trench off the
road. Pinky stopped the car and ran out.
Ricky, holding the shotgun, was looking down at the body and
whimpering.
Pinky ran over to the furrow and also looked down. Maura
lay there unmoving. The right side of her dress was torn away,
and blood was spreading over the ground from the large wound
in her abdomen.
Tears welled up in Pinky's eyes, and he let out a large sob.
Using all his willpower, he Went over to his truck and got on the
radio. In as steady a voice as possible, he called for the para-
medics.
He then went back to where Maura lay and put his trembling
fingers on the pulse by her neck. She was still alive. He took off
his coat, folded it up, and gentiy put it under Maura's head.
He then turned to Ricky.
The rookie looked up from Maura's body, and his face turned
white with fear when he saw the hate in Pinky's eyes.
"You fucking shit!" Pinky screamed, standing up and seizing
the shotgun from his hands. "You fucking shit!" he screamed
again as he hit Ricky hard in the face with the wooden stock.
Ricky's head shot back. He fell to his knees and grabbed his
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face. Blood streaming from between his fingers, he looked up in
horror at his boss.
Pinky's face was as red as the liquid oozing from Ricky's
mouth. Holding the shotgun by the barrel, he went over to the
oak tree by the side of the road and slammed it against the trunk.
He banged it over and over again, yelling, "Fucking shit! Fuck-
ing shit!" until the stock splintered in half. Then he dropped to
his knees next to Maura's body, put his hands over his head, and
let out a thunderous wail that shattered the stillness of the valley.
Chapter Forty-three
_r
ou had to have known about the gold mine.
It was Harrison! Rena thought, staring up at his fright-
ened, dangerous eyes. Blythe couldn't have carried this whole
thing off alone. She needed help. He must have been in on this
macabre plot right from the beginning.
Then she remembered him telling her the night of Simon's
dinner party that he used to be a mineralogist and that he had
worked in mines all over the world before he became a vintner.
Last year he had dug an underground wine cave for Monica van
der Slyck. Her land was adjacent to Maura's. That's when he
must have discovered traces of Liam O'Connor's gold mine un-
der the earth, except the valuable veins probably only ran through
Maura's property. He must have told Blythe about it, because
right after the completion of the van der Slyck cave, inquiries
were made by Edmond Farnsworth regarding the sale of the Mc-
Kinney land.
Yes, you had to have been her accomplice.
"You know about everything, don't you?" he said again.
She could feel the pressure of his thumb digging into her neck
and the cold steel of the gun on her cheek. She shook her head,
no, trying to suppress the surge of fear that was running rampant
in her stomach.
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The thumb tightened. "Don't lie to me, goddamn it!"
He was scared out of his mind, she realized, and using denial
with him would only get him crazier.' 'Okay, yes, I had an idea,''
she whispered.
He squeezed his eyes shut, looked up, and said, "Damn it
. . . goddamn it! Why you?"
She put her hand lightly on his, hoping he would loosen his
grasp. "How did this all start?" she said gently.
He let go of her neck and backed up a few steps. The gun was
pointed toward the ground. "What do you mean, how did this
all start?"
Rena knew better than to accuse him directly. "How did she
get you involved in this?"
"Where's Edmond?" he asked.
"Back at the house. She tried to kill him. He's probably called
the police by now." Because of the drugs, Rena wasn't sure if
Edmond was even capable of making a phone call. Harrison
didn't have to know that.
' 'Goddamn! That crazy bitch!'' He sighed and ran his shaking
hand through his hair. After a pause, he said, "I met her about
a year ago at a party thrown by one of those Japanese firms after
a takeover. She and Edmond were also there. They'd been mar-
ried for about a week. I was sitting at the bar and she came over
to me. We talked. One thing led to another, and we began to
have an affair." He started to pace nervously in circles.
"Was that right after you discovered gold on the McKinney
property?"
"Oh Christ! You even know about that, don't you?" he spit
out.
"Yes, I do." Don't get him agitated.
"She and I became lovers right after I discovered the gold.
All my life I was so close to wealth and yet so far," he said
bitterly, clenching his fist. "When I was a mineralogist I sweated
in those damn mines for rich assholes. I breathed in dust and
putrid air helping them find gold and gems, watching them get
richer and richer. All I got from it were pats on the back and a
few lousy bonuses. I got tired of all that shit. I quit and became
a wine maker. But it was the same damn thing. I did all the work,
and other men got wealthy. Then those Japs started buying up
the wineries, and I knew it would be a matter of time before I'd
be out of a job or working for them. Finding gold on someone
else's property was the last straw. If only it was on Monica van
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der Slyck's property." He shook his head sardonically. "That
old bitch was trying to get in my pants the first day I started
working for her. She would have married me in a second, and I
would have been rich now."
Rena grimaced, thinking that her father was now having an
affair with this woman. "Monica is rich," she said.
"Bullshit! That relic has less money than the Mexicans she
hired to pick her grapes. After I built her that cave, she tried
paying me off for my services in vintage wines that belonged to
her husband. She was dead broke. I told you she wasn't because
I was embarrassed. Can you imagine? She lives on a small allow-
ance and an income from the winery that her dead husband left
her. That's why she latched on to your father. He's got money."
A swell of anger shot through her. Except she knew Simon
was very proficient at taking care of himself. "What happened
when you told Blythe about the gold?"
"She laughed. Especially when I mentioned Maura Mc-
Kinney's name. She knew who she was. She said she was her
nurse at that insane asylum in Washington some years back. That's
when this idea grew."
He had stopped talking and began to think. Rena didn't want
him to do that—not while he was holding the gun. Blythe was a
psychopath; nothing could stop her from killing if that's what she
wanted to do. Harrison was different. He always liked her. Maybe
she had a chance. "Who suggested the idea?" she asked him
with a hint of sympathy in her voice.
"She did." He pointed to where Blythe's body lay in the de-
stemmer. "But that crazy idea came to her only after McKinney
wouldn't sell Edmond the land. You see, she didn't have any
money of her own. Farnsworth made her sign a prenuptial before
he'd marry her."
"Yes, I know," Rena said.
He sat down across from her on a bench, leaned his back
against the wall of the winery, and let the gun dangle between
his legs. "She called me up one afternoon and told me to come
over. Oh man, was she crazy! As soon as I walked into her house,
she grabbed me and started ripping off my clothes. We made
love on the floor of her living room. After it was over, I found
out Edmond was upstairs in the bedroom the entire time. That
crazy bitch gave him diazepam to knock him out. I was so furious
that I pushed her off of me and got up to get dressed. I just wanted
to get out of there and to get her out of my life. It was fun with
322

her in the beginning, but I could see there was something not
right with her up here." He pointed to his head. "But she just
laughed and said, 'See how easy it is. I can control anybody with
drugs. After being a nurse for twenty years, I have enough dif-
ferent kinds stocked away to fuck up a whole city if I want to.'
Then she told me what she wanted to do. Damn! I should have
left when I had a chance and not listened to her." Again he
became quiet; his eyes deep within himself, thinking.
Suddenly Rena remembered what Tomas Sanchez had said to
Otto van der Slyck after he told him about Maura swimming in the
spring. He said he already knew about Maura and that he had plans
for her. "Did you and Blythe hire Tomas Sanchez to kill Maura?"
"What?" he mumbled. "No. I hired that idiot to kidnap her.
That's all he was supposed to do. Blythe knew that Maura bathed
in that spring. She told her about it when she was in the hospital.
Maura said that it helped her skin. She told her that she'd been
using it every day ever since she was a little girl."
Then with an ironic grin on his face he said, "You see, the
water came from an underground cave. Liam O' Connor's cave.''
"The gold mine is directly under it?" she said, amazed.
"Yes. The spring was actually the entrance to the mine. An
underground basin close by must have broken through and
flooded the passageway." After a pause, he said, "A couple of
months ago Blythe went over to the McKinney winery and talked
to Manuel. She said that she was a good friend of Maura's when
she lived in New York City. She asked him when she would be
coming back up to Napa. He told her the exact date. Then Blythe
said she knew about the spring and wondered if Maura still went
bathing in it. Manuel was surprised that Maura had told her about
it but he said, yes, that she still used it when she came to visit.
We found out the time she was arriving and planted that fool
Sanchez in the brush to grab her. Except she was too strong for
him. Blythe forgot about her incredible strength. Maura cut To-
mas's throat with a knife. Luckily she also slipped and knocked
her head against a rock next to the spring. When Blythe and I
went down there, she was sitting on the ground, dazed."
"Was Sanchez dead?"
"No, but he was bleeding pretty badly, which made it easier
for us. You see, Tomas was going to be Maura's first victim."
"But he wasn't the first. There was another before him on the
East Coast," she said.
"I didn't know that at the time,'' he responded angrily.' 'When
323

Blythe and I first discussed it, we agreed on two murders. That
was all! Have Maura blamed for two murders. That crazy woman
had other plans and didn't bother telling me about them.'' Once
again he got up and started to pace. "The thing is, she got off
on what she was doing. She knew Maura's complete psycholog-
ical makeup from being her nurse and confidante at the hospital.
All she was supposed to do was dress up like one of Maura's
fantasies that she had read about in the files at the hospital. It
was some whore she called Jasmine Dawn. We were only going
to kill Tomas, then just one other person—a drifter or a picker—
someone the police wouldn't get up in arms about. It was only
supposed to happen in California, not in any other part of the
country. We didn't want the FBI called in. The killings were
supposed to be done just like in the diary of her French ancestor.
Blythe also knew about him. Everything was to point to Maura
being psychotic. Even down to the cheap K Mart clothes that
Blythe bought for her. Blythe or Julian—whatever name you want
to call her—knew that Maura had an aversion to that kind of
clothing. She told her in the hospital how her father would force
her to wear them because he couldn't afford anything better.''
That's because the stiffness would make her sensitive skin itch,
and she'd break out in red blotches, Rena thought. That's why
she always wore silk and expensive cotton clothing later on.
"Did you kill Tomas?" she quickly asked.
''God no!" he shuddered. ''I couldn't do something like that.
Oh, but she could. Christ could she ever!" he bellowed. "She
loved doing it. First she injected diazepam into Maura to put her
out. Tomas was sitting by the side of the spring holding his neck.
Blythe told him she was a nurse and that he should lay on his
stomach to stop the flow of the blood. When he did, she took the
nail she used on the other victims and banged it into his neck
with a hammer. I couldn't believe she did it so easily and without
any feeling. She then removed his testicles with a scalpel. Blythe
said she learned how to use a surgeons' knife while she was in
nursing school. She then used a fish-scaling knife to take skin
samples from Maura's arms, and stuck them under Tomas's nails.
She also ripped out some of Maura's hair and put them in his
hands. I went back up the hill, got a plastic tarp to wrap Tomas's
body in so I wouldn't get his blood over me, and carried him
into Maura's vineyard. We tied him to a vine, just like it was
done in the diary, hoping that Manuel would discover him. I went
back to the spring and lifted Maura's unconscious body. While I
324

held her, Blythe pushed Maura's feet in the wet ground so her
footprints would be there for the police.''
Rena looked toward the hills hoping she would see someone,
maybe Charlie. There was no one.
Harrison shook his head and smiled. "If you're looking for
that friend of yours, forget it."
Startled, she stood up. "What do you mean?"
He pointed the gun in her direction. "I mean that nobody is
coming here. Now sit down," he commanded.
She did what he said. His lips were twitching from nerves,
and she didn't want to get him annoyed. Looking at Harrison,
she asked, "What were you going to do with Maura?"
He brought the gun back down again. "Keep her drugged up
for a week or so until the harvesting was over. Then . . . then
she was supposed to be discovered in Sonoma or Mendocino.
She would have been found guilty or judged insane, the land
would have been auctioned off for next to nothing, and we would
have bought it. It was such a simple foolproof plan, and it all got
fucked up somehow." He put his free hand over his face and
rubbed it. Then he said in a tired voice, "Blythe had gotten
completely out of control. She wanted to keep killing. The bitch
actually got off on dressing up like Maura and leaving wrong
trails for the police. She was starting to do things that only crazy
people do."
"Like what?"
"She took Maura, drugged and unconscious, with her up to
Washington and Idaho. Do you believe that? If she had gotten
stopped by the authorities, it would have been all over. It was
almost as if she were playing Russian roulette with them."
"The ticket man at the depot in Napa said Maura bought a
ticket and boarded a bus there to go up north."
Harrison shook his head again.' 'What a crazy bitch. That was
Blythe dressed as Maura. She never actually got on the bus. She
just wanted witnesses to see her at the station. She talked me
into driving her up to Fort Bragg where she rented that station
wagon. I then drove back to Napa."
That's why she rented a station wagon with tinted windows up
north, Rena thought. Something big enough to contain a body
and where no one could see in. Then she remembered the phone
call she received from Blythe saying that she was in Palm Springs
and that she wanted to drive in to L.A. to have lunch with her.
None of that was true, she suddenly realized. Blythe couldn't
325

have driven to L.A. because she was actually somewhere in the
northwest at that time. She called to tell me she was in another
place in case I got suspicious. "Why take Maura with her?"
"So forensics would be able to show that Maura was at the
scene of every murder. Everything had to be freshly taken from
her body—the hair, the blood, the skin particles. If they weren't,
the police would suspect something was wrong."
"What about the vaginal secretion and the semen."
"Yes, that, too," he said. "Especially the semen. I don't know
how she did it, but Blythe said that part of it was the coup de
gface. She said that when the authorities found out that the vag-
inal fluid and semen contained the same DNA makeup, it should
blow them away. Especially once they discovered that Maura was
a hermaphrodite." He shook his head. "Blythe was having fun
with all of this. She loved taking these chances. It got crazier and
crazier. Then, when she killed Ray Scollari, I knew she was way
out of control. There was no reason to do that. The police already
had enough evidence to convict Maura."
"Where is Maura now?" she asked, concerned.
"Who knows?" he said shrugging. "Blythe planted the ham-
mer in her purse and let her go free in some park in Boise, Idaho.
She was unconscious at the time. She hoped the police would
find her in the park and discover the hammer in her bag. Blythe
said that Maura was so fucked up by the drugs she had given her
that she actually believed she murdered all those people. She
would be found insane by a jury and locked away." He nervously
scratched his head. "God, Blythe, you were so damn crazy!" he
said, mostly to himself. He turned to Rena. "One time Maura
woke up in a cabin Blythe rented. That wasn't supposed to hap-
pen. Luckily she passed out again. The irony of it all is that the
police did not find Maura in Boise like she thought they would.
Blythe had totally misjudged the woman. She escaped. Nobody
knows where she is now." Harrison once again became thought-
ful. He rested his head against the wall in back of him.
Don't let him think, she said to herself. "Was Winston Fraw-
ley's death a suicide?"
"Oh, God!" he moaned. "I feel like I'm in a ship that's
sinking thousands of miles from land."
Good! Feel that way. "Did he commit suicide?" she asked
him again.
"No." He rolled his head against the stone wall. "No! No!
No! Right after we got back from seeing Professor Tomain, Blythe
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called me. She was hysterical. She said that she had just run into
Winston Frawley on the street in Calistoga and that he recognized
her as the nurse who took care of Maura at Riverside Hospital.
Everybody knew he had cancer and that he only had a few more
months to live. She thought she could avoid such an encounter
with him, thinking that he'd die before that happened. Except it
didn't take place that way. He knew who she was the minute he
saw her. She told me I had to kill him."
"So what if he recognized her? What did it matter?" Rena
said, bewildered, thinking about how she had liked that old man.
' 'Blythe couldn't afford to be tied in with Maura in any remote
way, especially when she was going to bid for the property. The
FBI might see more than just a coincidence going on here." He
sighed deeply and said, "A couple of hours before I was to meet
you at the restaurant, I went over to Frawley's house. At that
point I didn't even know how I was going to get rid of him. I
thought maybe I would just talk to him, see if it mattered to him
whether Maura's old nurse was now living up here. I wanted to
feel him out. Winnie ..." Suddenly he stopped, realizing that
he had no right to call the man he killed by the name used only
by his friends. He cleared his throat and said, "I found Winston
working in his winery. I asked him about Blythe. He was up on
the ladder at the time fixing a loose metal band on the wooden
vat. Blythe was right, it turned out. Frawley was suspicious about
her being up here." He paused for a couple Of seconds, thinking
about what happened, then he continued. "I knew what I had to
do." He closed his eyes and grimaced. "Telling him I'd give him
a hand, I climbed up on the ladder right behind him. It was so
easy. I just pushed him slightly, getting him off balance, and the
upper half of his body fell into the layer of carbon dioxide floating
on top of the vat. I held him there for a few seconds, and it was
all over. Damn! It was easy. Then I closed all the vents to make
it look like a suicide and left to meet you for dinner."
Rage and disgust shot up in her, and she fought to keep it
down. "When you met Blythe and Edmond at the restaurant that
evening, was that just a coincidence?"
"No. Blythe was jealous of you." Casting his eyes to the
ground, he said, "She knew I had a thing about you. When she
found out that I planned to have dinner with you that night
she almost bit my head off. She said that she and Edmond would
be there, too. She'd make sure of that."
Rena felt sick to her stomach when she thought about how she
327

had taken special care in getting ready that night. To think that I
was attracted to this man, she thought with disgust. Then she
remembered how Blythe was flirting openly with the waiter. She
was trying to make Harrison jealous.
"Where do we go from here?" she asked him.
He looked up. "What?"
Rena sucked in her breath, kept her eye on Harrison's hand
holding the gun, and said, "It's all over. Blythe's dead."
"I know. What you really mean to say, though, is what am I
going to do with you?" His voice was cracking.
"Yes, that's what I meant," she murmured. You like me, Har-
rison. I know you do. Think about it for a minute, okay? Reach-
ing out her hand to him, she said, "You told me you felt that you
were on a sinking ship with no land in sight. Let me help you
find that land. It's all over now. You know that."
As if reading her mind, he looked up at the madrona trees
surrounding the winery and reflected on his position.
"It's over, Harrison," she repeated softly once again. "There's
too many bodies. You can't cover them all up."
After a minute, Harrison's mouth twisted into a broken smile.
Cocking the hammer on the Beretta, he brought the gun up to
the height of her stomach and said, "Maybe it's not over the way
you think it is. Maybe I just found one little island out there to
latch on to."
Rena understood his meaning, and her organs suddenly felt
cold and dead inside her.
Charlie stepped on the brakes hard in order to avoid crashing
into the Wagoneer and the black GMC truck blocking the private
road leading up to Farnsworth's house. The door of the Jeep was
wide open. As he got out of the car, he saw the lettering on the
license plate—B. F. Did it stand for Blythe Farnsworth? He
couldn't explain why, but a chill shot through him. Somehow
he knew that Rena was not up in the house.
Putting his hands up to his mouth, he hollered, "Rena!
Reena!"
There was no sound other than the breeze brushing against the
few fall-colored leaves that still clung to the trees. In die distance,
there was the voice of a bird calling out to its mate.
"Rena! Rena!" he screamed louder.
He looked over to the side toward the slope: bushes had been
torn apart, and the ground seemed disturbed. There was some-
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thing gleaming in the brush. He walked over to it and bent down.
Pushing away the grass, he picked up the casing of a 9mm shell.
Then he saw two others a couple of feet down the incline. From
where he was squatting, he could see furrows in the earth made
from human hands and feet. The amount of flora that was dis-
rupted clearly showed there had been more than one person here.
Shit!
Charlie carefully made his way down the grade, sliding part
of the way, until he reached bottom. Covered with leaves and
mud, he stood perfectly still, trying desperately to hear some-
thing. His ears picked up the sound of a creek in the distance,
then closer in he could hear the low monotone pitch of a winery's
generator.
She's here! I know she is!
He ran toward the sound as fast as he could, using his muscular
body to break through the dense underbrush.
"Rena!" he shouted wildly, like a wounded lion rushing to-
ward his endangered mate.
"Rena!"
Dead twigs snapped under his feet and cut into his ankles.
Branches tore at his shirt and scraped his skin.
"Rena!"
The loud crack of a handgun suddenly filled the valley and
resonated off the surrounding hills.
Charlie stopped, letting that terrible, familiar sound reverber-
ate through his head.
Oh shitmotherfuckingchrist!
"Reeeena!"
Chapter Forty-four
_B
ubbles of blood dripped from Maura's mouth and clung
to her bottom lip. Her eyes, only slits now, were glazed
over.
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Pinky was on his knees looking down at her. His thick fingers
dug into his cheeks as his body swayed back and forth. Gurgling
sounds were coming from Maura's throat.
"Oh, no! Oh, no! Please no!" he screamed. Ignoring her
blood-soaked dress, he pressed his meaty hands between her
breasts and desperately began pushing up and down. "No! No!
No!" He then put his wide mouth over hers, urging his own air
into her lungs.
To have my lips finally on her mouth and now she's dead!
Somewhere down the highway, the rising sound of a siren
could be heard coming from a paramedic's truck.
His palms pumped feverishly against her motionless chest. He
could feel her ribs and sternum practically breaking under the
weight of his massive body.
I loved you! I loved you so much more than Martin! Don't die!
Again his mouth went over hers. Her eyes suddenly opened wide.
Stay with me! Please don't leave me! Why did you have to
sleep with him ? If only you could have loved me everything would
have been so different. Sweat dropped onto her face from his
forehead. His hands continued to thrust up and down. Ever since
that day I always knew what you were and I never cared. Never!
She was staring at Pinky now. Recognition finally broke
through her fevered mind.
Heavy shadow.
She knew who killed her Martin. Her eyes hardened with hate,
and the rattle in her throat turned into a steady whine, building
to a fiery scream. The siren from the paramedic's truck got louder
and louder, intermixing with her voice.
Frightened, Pinky moved his hands away from her chest and
looked at the savage hate in her face. She knows, he thought.
She knows! He could live with anything except her knowing.
Please! Please! Oh Please no!!
Her screaming didn't stop, not even after the medic strapped
her to the gurney. She pointed a finger at Pinky and yelled,
"Murderer! Murderer!" as they put her in the ambulance and
closed the doors.
When the truck disappeared down the highway, Pinky dropped
to the dusty road. He drew his knees up to his face, shielded his
ears with his hands to drown out the rage in her voice, and sobbed.
Over by the Bronco, Ricky leaned against the tire. He dabbed
at his split Up with a handkerchief and watched his boss in be-
wilderment. He never saw someone as big as Pinky cry before.
330

Pinky pulled at his ears with all his might, trying to block out
Maura's scream. But the sound stayed in his head, refusing to
leave. He knew from the depths of his soul that it would remain
inside him forever.
Chapter forty-five
_U
sing his arms like a battering ram, Charlie pushed the com-
pact foliage aside until he came into the clearing. When he
was able to see, he stopped running and looked around. Twenty
yards away was the stone winery. The bitter smells of potassium
nitrate and something salty infiltrated the air. He knew the odors
well: gunpowder and blood!
"Rena!" he cried out.
The only response to his plea was the steady woosh of the
wind.
Looking closer, he suddenly saw a pool of blood snaking its
way along the ground from behind the other side of the building.
He rushed over to the stone wall and turned the corner. His eyes
quickly glanced toward the de-stemmer, and he could see the
mangled remains of Blythe's upper body inside. He then turned
his head toward the winery, where large splashes of blood slid
down the white stone wall like a De Kooning painting. The drip-
pings ended next to a body lying on the ground. Most of the head
was blown away, but he recognized the red cable sweater as the
same one worn by the man who had attacked him. The Beretta
was on the grass right next to his hand. It was Harrison. God-
damn it, it was Harrison! The bastard shot himself in the head.
"Charlie," a voice said weakly from behind him.
He quickly turned around.
Rena was standing over to the side. Her trembling hands were
pressed to her face, and her skin had an uncanny paleness to it.
A long, deep moan rose up from his throat, and he ran over
to her. Putting his hands on her shoulders, he pressed her head
331

deep into his chest. From somewhere within him he heard him-
self saying over and over again: "I love you. I love you. I love
you."
Her body sagged into his, and he could feel the warmth of her
trembling arms looping tightly around his waist.
At this moment, whatever walls they had built up over the
years to protect themselves from the looming pain of closeness
came crashing down like a thatched roof during a raging hurri-
cane.
332

EPILOGUE

_D
awn had just broken over Brentwood, splashing San Vi-
cente Boulevard in a pale, gray light. The streets were
empty, and the upscale stores, filled with Christmas parapher-
nalia and glitter, were closed tight for at least four more hours.
The only signs of life could be found on the grass divider that
separated the wide boulevard. There, scores of joggers were run-
ning toward the ocean and back, like they did every day before
they filed into their CPA, law, and medical practices.
This morning, a black jaguar convertible also headed down
San Vicente. It drove past the runners going in the opposite di-
rection, then turned left onto Wilshire Boulevard. The lampposts
on each side of this main thoroughfare were decorated with
Santas and Christmas lights. A few seconds later, the sleek
automobile made its way onto the Southbound 405 Freeway.
"It isn't even Thanksgiving yet and the Christmas glitz is al-
ready up," Charlie said thoughtfully, looking out the passenger
window. "Every year they do it earlier and earlier. At this rate,
Santa is going to find himself with a firecracker up his ass on the
fourth of July."
"Cute, Charlie. You have such a way with words," Rena said,
smiling. She was driving. He put his hand on her shoulder,
brushing the tips of her hair with his fingers. She leaned her body
slightly into his. Inhaling deeply, she smelled the leather from
his worn aviator's jacket. It was an odor she knew well, and it
made her feel warm and safe.
I'll miss that smell, she thought. Six months this time. Shit!
"Where's Simon taking Cathy this weekend?" he asked her,
breaking the quiet between them.
"San Diego. She's never been to Sea World. Simon wanted to
take her there." For the past month Simon and Cathy had been
inseparable. The rift between them had finally been bridged.
335

Rena was happy about that. When she was growing up, Simon
never had the time to be a father to her. Now at least he can be
a grandfather to Cathy.
When Rena brought up Monica van der Slyck to Simon, he
said, "Yes, I knew all about her and what she really wanted from
me. I had her checked out when she moved onto her late hus-
band's property. I knew she had no money. I hoped that her
feelings for me would be real. Well, it's over between us now."
Then with sad eyes and a crack in his voice, he said, "Hell, it
was fun while it lasted!"
Charlie and Rena drove the rest of the way to the airport in
silence. His hand never left her shoulder until they came to the
Bradley Terminal.
She parked in the lot across the street and popped open the
trunk. He got out of the car, grabbed his worn nylon suitcase and
lap-top computer from the trunk, then took out Rena's overnight
shoulder bag and handed it to her. Putting his hand on the nape
of her neck, they crossed over and walked slowly into the build-
ing.
They stood next to the boarding gate with the Pan Am symbol
over the check-in counter, neither one saying anything. Biting
down on her lip, she willed the tears that were welling up in her
eyes to stay put.
He put his arms around her, drawing her into his body. They
stayed that way until they heard, "Atension por favor. El vuelo
125 de Pan Am que va a San Salvador, El Salvador. Esta aciendo
la ultima llamada para abordar. "
"Last call," Rena said.
Charlie nodded, then regretfully let her go.
She looked into his somber eyes. "I'll miss you this Christ-
mas, Charlie," she said, remembering how wonderful their last
Christmas was together.
"Hell, it's like Christmas every day in El Salvador. Come on
down." He forced a grin.
"Sure," she said, kissing the side of his neck. She knew he
was joking.
Six months!
Again over the loudspeaker: ' 'Esta aciendo la ultima llamada
para aborda. "
He held her for a second longer, kissing her hard on the lips,
then broke away. Without looking back, he disappeared into the
gateway.
336

She stayed at the window and watched the plane taxi down the
runway. Only when it was out of sight did she allow the tears to
flow. Don't die, Charlie. Come back to me.
Six goddamn months!
Rena left the international building and walked slowly toward
the US Air terminal. There was no rush; her flight didn't leave
for San Francisco for at least two hours. She was going to see
Maura. It's a good day for it, she thought. With Charlie leaving,
I need to be with a friend.
She had coffee at a cafeteria inside the building and thought
about Charlie. The L.A. Trib had refused to accept his resigna-
tion. Instead, they offered him a job as a full-time foreign cor-
respondent, and he got to pick the areas of the world he wanted
to cover. Unfortunately where he wanted to cover, wars were
raging and people were dying.
Whatever qualms they had about committing to each other
were totally shattered that September morning in the Napa Val-
ley. The taste of death brought them together. Old pains and
restraints caused from lost loves paled in comparison to that.
They needed each other. They knew that now. Surprisingly, in-
stead of chains and dank prison cells, they found freedom and
sunlight with their commitment: freedom to be who they were
because they knew the other person would accept them.
Come back to me, Charlie!
An hour and a half later the boarding call was announced for
her flight to San Francisco.
When her plane let down at San Francisco International Air-
port, she rented a car and drove over the Golden Gate Bridge
into Marin County and took the turnoff to Napa.
Vineyards dotted the landscape. They were devoid of foliage
at this time of year, and the naked vines, held upright by crossed
poles, resembled thousands of crucifixions. That image evoked
memories of de Montret, and she turned her eyes away from the
fields.
She passed the Napa Sheriff's Department, and her body
tensed. Pinky was in one of the cells there awaiting trial. After
Maura was shot and almost died, he confessed to the murder of
Martin By num. While sobbing uncontrollably, he told the au-
thorities that on the day of Maura's seventeenth birthday he stood
in die corner of the den, sulking, watching them together. When
they snuck out of the party, he followed them. He watched as
they opened the doors of Peter's winery and went inside. Through
337

a small hole in the stone wall, he spied on them making love.
The years of bottled up longing and unfulfilled love exploded
into an indomitable rage. Martin had everything. Everything!
Looks, brains . . . and Maura. Filled with fury, he ran home
and got his shotgun. When he returned to the winery, Martin
and Maura were just leaving. He squatted down behind a grape-
vine, watching his two friends laughing and running through the
vineyards toward Martin's house. His heart was bursting with
sorrow and anger. He hid behind the trees in the backyard of the
house, making sure they couldn't see him. When he looked up
into Martin's bedroom window, he saw both of them standing
there naked. They were kissing passionately and groping each
other. The rage flared up again. He waited twenty minutes more,
then went over to the back door and jimmied the lock. It was
easy, he told the police. When he was a teenager, he was consid-
ered a juvenile delinquent and had broken into many homes and
cars. He quietly made his way up the stairs and looked through
the small crack of Martin's partially closed bedroom door. They
were making love again. Stifling a groan, he went into Martin's
parents' room. He knew what he had to do. Ibrning the closet
and the dresser drawers inside out, he made the room look like
it had been ransacked. Then he heard Martin's footsteps ap-
proaching. He grabbed his shotgun, pumped a cartridge into the
chamber, and waited. When he walked in, Pinky pointed the
barrel of the gun three inches from Martin's surprised face and
pulled the trigger. There was red everywhere. When he looked
down, he saw Martin lying on the floor with most of his face
gone. Panic overtook him. He ran down the steps and outside
the house, praying Maura didn't see him.
When asked by police after his confession if he knew that
Maura was a hermaphrodite, he put his hands in his face and
answered, "Yeah, I guess so." He had seen her nude in the
winery and in Martin's bedroom. "Except I didn't know what it
was called back then. It wouldn't have mattered. I'd have loved
her no matter what she was."
Even though Pinky had taken a life and practically destroyed
Maura in the process, Rena felt sorry for him. Unlike Blythe
Farnsworth, he was capable of love. Pinky told the police about
the self-hatred he had over what he had done and how on many
occasions he contemplated suicide.
Rest easy, Pinky, she thought. It's all out in the open now.
When she reached Oakville, she turned off Highway 29 and
338

headed toward the cemetery where the McKinneys were buried.
Maura asked her if she would meet her there.
She began to think about Maura and her eyes filled up with
tears. My poor, dear friend. What that woman did to you!
The medical reports were unbelievable! Blythe kept Maura
doped up for over a week, feeding her intravenously. While
Maura lay unconscious in the station wagon, Blythe used her to
scrape the mucous-membrane area inside her vagina with gauze
to remove her secretion. She then coated the truck driver, Arnie
Baker's, organ with the vaginal fluid.
To extract the semen that was placed in Harriet Crowe's va-
gina, that sick woman actually cut into Maura's vas deferens tube
located in the scrotum. It's one of a pair of ducts that hold the
spermatozoa. She did it with the same dirty scalpel that she used
for her castrations and ovariectomies. Blythe never even bothered
to clean or sew Maura's incision up afterward. That open wound
caused the infestation and fever that raged through Maura's body.
Rena parked the car next to the wrought-iron gate of the cem-
etery and walked over to the headstones. Fresh flowers lay on
the grass mounds of the graves of the McKinneys. A feeling of
sadness engulfed her. So much misery and pain here. So much.
"Hi. You're late," Maura's voice said from behind.
Rena turned around and smiled. "Sorry. The Golden Gate
was a bitch. Bumper-to-bumper traffic."
They both looked at each other for a second, then they hugged.
When they broke away, Rena asked, "How do you feel,
Maura?"
Maura grinned. "Getting better." She was holding a cane to
help her walk. Part of her stomach and left hipbone were de-
stroyed by the shotgun blast, but she had lived. Rena had been
coming up for the last several weekends to see her.
"Thanks for meeting me here."
"That's what you wanted," Rena said.
"Thank you," she whispered again, staring at the graves of
her parents.
Yes, she was looking better, Rena thought. Her hair was blonde
again, and it was getting longer. She was thinner than before,
but some color had returned to her pale skin. The grating head-
aches, the psychotic behavior, the panic attacks, and the occa-
sional blackouts that she was experiencing were actually caused
by the medications that had been given to her by Riverside Hos-
pital. They were wrong for her, and her body could not tolerate
339

them. She was now getting proper psychiatric counseling and
monitoring at a San Francisco hospital on a weekly outpatient
basis.
"These flowers are beautiful," Rena said, pointing to the
graves of Peter and Clair. "Did you put them here?"
"Yes," Maura said, limping over to the mounds. She touched
the headstone of Peter McKinney. "It's time I made my peace
with him. I hated him so much for all those years. I even masked
Martin's real killer with my father's face. Now I need to under-
stand him . . . perhaps even pity him. Maybe one day I'll even
feel love for him. I always wanted that.'' There was a sad, bitter
smile on her face.
Peter McKinney did love his daughter, Rena thought. One day
she'll see it. Give it time.
They drove their cars back to Maura's house.
Making the turnoff from Spring Mountain onto the gravel road,
Rena saw Manuel putting a new pipe on the sprinkler system in
the wine fields. He waved to her and she waved back. Last week
Rena had asked Maura what she intended to do with the property
now that her ancestors' gold mine was found under it. She
shrugged and said that for the time being she'd just let it stay
where it is. One day she would have it dug up. Then she would
give a healthy share of it to Manuel and Elvera.
Inside the house was a box of roses that had been delivered
when Maura was at the cemetery. Rena watched her open the
box. Her face glowed like a little girl's when she read the card.
"Who are they from?" Rena asked.
"Frank Barney. He's a doctor at the Free Clinic in Las Vegas.
We've become friends." She looked away embarrassed.
They went out to the backyard and sat on the double swing on
the porch—the one they used to sit on when they were children.
"Does he know?" Rena asked, making the swing sway slightly
with her feet. Their shoes scuffed lightly against the wood plank
floor.
"That I'm a hermaphrodite? Yes. He told me that there are
operations. I said I already knew about them. I just don't know
if I want to have it done." Her eyes stared deeply into the vine-
yards. "I am what I am. The whole world knows about it, and I
can't hide what I am from them or myself anymore. Instead of
smirks, I received letters of compassion and understanding. Peo-
ple aren't as cruel as I imagined them to be. Before I decide what
340

I want to do, I need to go out in the world—embrace it like I've
always been afraid of doing in the past. After that, we'll see."
There was that familiar fire in Maura's eyes, the kind Rena
hadn't seen since Martin was killed.
Maura turned to her and grinned. "Want to have a picnic like
we used to?"
Rena grinned back. "Absolutely!"
El vera brought out tamales, cold chicken, and Oreo cookies
and they ate them sitting on a blanket on the grass.
"He's cute, you know," Maura said, digging into the bag of
Oreo cookies.
"Who?" Rena asked, her mouth full of chicken.
"Your boyfriend. That guy you brought up with you last
week."
"Charlie?"
"Yeah."
Rena looked sad.
"What's the matter?" Maura asked.
She told her that Charlie would be away for six months.
"What a shame. Such a hunk," Maura said mischievously.
Suddenly Rena giggled. Then Maura also started to giggle.
The years parted and they were kids again.
With fingers entwined tightly around each other's hand, they
talked for hours until the sun went down and the night turned
cold.
The cocoon was back, stronger than ever.
341

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Gary Gottesfeld was born in Brooklyn, New York. He graduated
from New York University with degrees in English and theater.
After working as a chief copywriter for a major advertising firm, he
left to become a journalist. Gary Gottesfeld now lives in Encino,
CA, with his wife, Nancy, and son, Adam. BLOOD HARVEST is
his second novel.

^uDa hurt. •.
Da kill...
Help me!"
These are the last words of little Alice call-
ing into Rena Halbrook's radio show.
As Charles Halleran, veteran reporter, hears
the little girl's plea over his car radio, he re-
members another little girl named Alice who
died in Mew York eighteen years before. Can
there possibly be a connection? Charles
teams up with Rena in a desperate search to
uncover dark secrets from the past and pre-
vent almost certain tragedy from striking
again.
THE VIOLET CLOSET
by Gaiy Gottesfeld
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