On Sunday, the two of them spent the day exploring the Napa Valley. Life had been moving forward at such a hectic pace since they'd arrived, with school and work and unpacking, that they hadn't really had much of a chance to see the area beyond their own small section of the city. Both of them figured it was about time they got to know their new home.
They hit all the tourist spots, following a map of the valley given to his mom by the Auto Club. They drove past Lake Berryessa and Mount St.
Helena, went to the Bale Grist Mill, and paid to see Old Faithful and the Petrified Forest, lesser publicized cousins of the identically named natural wonders. The land was not spectcular, but it was beautiful in a quiet, subtle sort of way, the country roads winding between cultivated vineyards, skirting rolling hills and low, wooded mountains.
Although they drove as far as Sonoma to see Jack London's house, they did not stop at any of the wineries. It would have been too awkward right now, too tense. Nothing would have or could have happened, but the mere fact that they were at a winery would have served as a reminder of things past, would have dredged up recent memories neither of them wanted to face. The subject of visiting a winery did not even come up between them.
While his mom drove, however, Dion looked on the map for Daneam Vineyards, hoping to see where Penelope's family business was located.
Unfortunately, the winery was not listed. They passed several unnamed vineyards with both large and small complexes attached, any of which could have been the one owned by Penelope's family, but though he carefully scrutinized each gate and signpost, Dion did not see Penelope's last name written anywhere.
They returned home around five, travel-tired and sightseeing-worn, and while his mom took a hot bath, Dion drove to Taco Bell and bought a junk food feast for both of them. They pigged out while watching 60 Minutes and afterward watched a TV movie together. For the first time in a long while, his mom seemed to him like a mother, not like a sister, not like a peer, not like an adversary, and Dion fell asleep happy. He did not dream.
In the year and a half that he had worked as night watchman at Pauling Brothers Winery, Rob Fowler had never had occasion to investigate even a minor disturbance. There had been a few false alarms at first, brought about by his own jitters and inexperience rather than anything substantive, but those had disappeared after he'd learned the layout of the operation. Of course, Pauling was not Beringer's or Mondavi or Sterling or one of those other high-profile wineries. Those, he understood, often had problems with vandals. But Pauling was a small concern, out of the way, off the main drag, and tours were given by invitation only. This meant that ordinarily he had a pretty cushy job.
He read his mystery novels, watched his portable TV, did his crossword puzzles.
Which was why he now felt so woefully unprepared.
Ron walked slowly through the silent, empty building toward the entrance of the fermenting cave, peering anxiously in all directions, listening for any sound out of the ordinary. The huge room was empty, the only noise his own loudly clacking heels and the amplified drumming of the blood in his head. He was scared, much more scared than he'd thought he'd be when he'd imagined this scenario in his head. This was not something he was really trained for, not something he felt comfortable with. He had taken this job because it was supposed to be a cakewalk, not because he had any aptitude for it. As a retired maintenance worker, he drew a pension that was a step above bird crap, and he'd just wanted an easy way to pull in some extra cash. He'd been assured every step of the way that there was nothing to this job, that the gun he'd been issued was little more than a prop, part of the uniform, that he would never have to actually confront anyone.
Why the hell hadn't he got a job at Mcdonald's with the other senior citizens?
He walked slowly forward. He knew he didn't have to do this. Despite what it said on his job description, despite the gun and the uniform and the ersatz police trappings, he could have simply alerted the cops and waited in place until they arrived. But he still wasn't absolutely sure that this was anything. He had been at his station, in the small office next to Purchasing, reading an old Ross Mcdonald book, when the black-and-white picture on the screen monitoring the cave suddenly disappeared in a burst of snow. He caught the shift with his peripheral vision and immediately glanced up at the row of monitors above the desk, scanning quickly from one to the other. He had not counted on seeing anything, had assumed there had merely been some type of technical malfunction, but on the screen showing an overview of Distilling Room One he saw the door to the cave, which was supposed to be closed and locked at all times, swing slowly and deliberately shut.
His heart had leaped in his chest.
He'd immediately jumped up, grabbing his key ring and unholstering his weapon, and had hurried across the dimly lit parking lot to the distillery.
Scared as he was, though, he was glad that he had not alerted the police. Calling in a false alarm, making a fool of himself in front of them, probably would have lost him his job quicker than anything else.
Ron continued forward, toward the closed door leading to the cave. His hand on the butt of the pistol was sweaty, slippery, and he quickly switched hands, wiping his palm on the rough material of his pants before switching back.
Something clicked against the other side of the door.
He stopped in mid-step. The room suddenly seemed much darker, the tanks to each side much larger, more threatening. Even with the lights on, pools of shadow still existed, ill-defined patches of night which had seeped past the technology of electricity and phosphorescence into the building. There were a million hiding places here, he realized. An army of vandals, corporate spies, or terrorists could be staying in place, waiting for him to pass by so they could jump him.
The door clicked again, but this time the sound was wet, faintly organic.
Monsters.
It's vandals, he thought, clinging to the idea, trying to take comfort in it. It's corporate thugs, burglars, arsonists, murderers, terrorists, escaped lunatics. His mind ran down the list of possible assailants, possible human assailants, in a desperate attempt to keep that other idea at bay.
Monsters.
That was what he really feared, wasn't it? After all these years?
Monsters. The decades had passed, he had grown up and grown old, but inside he was still that little boy who was afraid of the garage, who heard noises in the bushes outside his window at night, who saw shadows in the hallway grow and move after his parents turned off the light. The rationality that had come with responsibility and adulthood was merely a mask, a thin covering over the real self he had never really outgrown or left behind.
The door to the fermenting cave was before him, a few steps away. He could clearly see the point at which the concrete foundation of the building met the side of the limestone hill. He wanted to run, to flee back to his office, to the homey comforts of his book and his TV, to pretend he had seen nothing and feign ignorance in the morning when the break-in was discovered, but he forced himself to put out his hand and knock loudly on the closed steel door.
'Who's in there?' he demanded.
There was no answer.
He tried the handle and, as he'd expected, the door was open. He pushed open the door with his left hand and gripped his gun firmly with his right.
He staggered back, gagging.
The floor of the cave was covered with blood, a thick red, viscous goo which looked like congealed Jello and smelled like rancid feces. Blood had splashed onto the sides of the wooden casks, and the odor of the blood mingled with the strong aroma of the fermenting vintage was almost overpowering. He pinched his nostrils together with his fingers so he could breathe, and held the door open with his foot. Flung randomly about the cave, on the floor, on top of the casks, against the limestone walls, were the rent and mutilated carcasses of dozens of small animals:
squirrels, cats, rats, opossums. In the refracted light let in by the door, he could see peeled fur skin backed by white-veined flesh, discolored and deflated organs clustered about lifelines of arteries and intestines.
There was a quiet pop, the sound of falling liquid, an alcohol blast of scent. Heart racing, he reached around the side wall, feeling the stone with his fingers, searching in vain for a light switch. He peered into the gloom at the far end of the narrow cave, and cursed himself for not bringing a flashlight. 'Who's there?' he called.
