State of Rebellion

The periodic nightmares in which he relived the horror of Susan’s death were a continuing curse and a cruel mocking of what might have been-should have been. He hated seeing her broken body lying amidst the blood. When he allowed his mind to drift, he missed her terribly, his breath came in short, ragged gasps, and the pain in his chest, more emotional than physical, was, to his way of thinking, indiscernible from an actual physiological trauma.

But there were also satisfying memories. Even now, while driving or sitting quietly in his office, he often found himself lost in thought, trying desperately to recall her scent, the texture of her hair and the feel of her skin. He would think about how she spoke to him with her eyes, her smile, and the bold and intimate things she would say and do as she draped herself on him, entwining her fingers in his hair, breathing her sweet breath into his ear, growling outrageous threats, slowly building his emotion and desire, and purring in response when he held her tightly in his arms, his face buried in the fragrant hollow of her neck and shoulder.

Yet also in that quiet solitude-that memory-induced coma-he also missed her softer side, so often exposed as she sat quietly on a quiet hillside at sunset, writing in her journal, the moisture filling her eyes. After some months, he came to realize that her head-turning physical attributes had never been the source of his deeply felt love. He had lost his companion, his partner in life, and his lover, and her absence left him empty, at times inconsolably bereft of emotion.

His grandfather had been right. Life often wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that less than a year after being married, she had been cruelly and needlessly snatched away from him. It wasn’t fair that he was alone. It wasn’t fair that he didn’t want to be alone, but that he could not, for the life of him, envision being with anyone else.

Writing the book had at first only been an escape, and so he was more than mildly surprised when a New York literary agent to whom he had submitted early parts of the manuscript had asked to see the rest. Since that telephone call, the pressure had been intense to finish the book, and he had worked late at night and early in the mornings through several drafts to polish his story and put it in final form. He was ready now to send it off, but he was doing so without much confidence. He had never written anything for publication, and he’d heard the horror stories about how hard it is to get a publisher to pay any attention to an unknown author. He had prepared himself to be disappointed, certain his manuscript would generate only a series of rejection slips.

He was consoled when he considered that the writing had helped him cope with the loss of Susan and also put him in touch with his ancestors. No matter what came of it, Voices in My Blood had served a great purpose.

The phone rang just as Dan was grabbing his keys and preparing to leave his condo for work.

“Good morning, this is Dan.”

“Morning, Dan. It’s Tony.”

“Well, Sheriff, you’re on the job early this morning. Trying to set up a game this afternoon?”

Antonio Sanchez was the Yolo County Sheriff, and the two of them sometimes knocked off early to get in a quick nine holes at the Yolo Country Club after work. But instead of responding to the question, Tony said, “Can you meet me on I-5 at the north end of the Memorial Bridge?”

“Sure. I don’t have staff meeting ’til ten. What’s up?”

“I’d, uh, rather talk with you in person.”

“Understand. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

The flashing lights and multiple vehicles parked on both sides of the interstate at the north end of the bridge were visible for nearly a mile across the flat, flood plain northwest of the river and gave ample direction to the scene. Dan pulled off the freeway and around to the northwest side of the bridge that crossed the Sacramento River. Named the Vietnam Veteran’s Memorial Bridge after a long campaign waged by veterans from Yolo and Sacramento counties, the bridge was sorely in need of repair or replacement.

At least a dozen vehicles-sheriff’s department, emergency medical services, and civilian-were scattered on the shoulder of the road on both sides of the bridge. Dan pulled his Blazer behind a sheriff’s patrol car and got out to peer over the side of the bridge. Slightly below and partially under the bridge in the dry creek bed was an ambulance. Dan made his way down the dusty slope and toward a cluster of sheriff’s deputies and several civilians-whom Dan took to be detectives-standing around Sheriff Tony Sanchez.

Rounding the back of the ambulance, Dan instantly came to a halt. An EMT was sitting on the shoulders of another EMT, trying to undo the rope around the neck of a man wearing camouflage BDUs similar to what Dan wore on guard weekend drills. The lifeless body hung from the underside of the bridge abutment. The body was turned the other way, and Dan was unable to see the face.

“A rotten way to start a Monday morning,” Tony said, excusing himself from those surrounding him and stepping in Dan’s direction. The sheriff took him by the arm and led him away from the group.

“Deputy Collins was shot and killed here last night.”

“Darin Collins? What happened?”

“We don’t know yet. A passing trucker reported seeing his cruiser parked at a funny angle up there at the end of the bridge. When a deputy checked it out, he found Collins lying alongside the car. He’d been shot in the head.”

“I can’t believe it. Any theories as to why?”

“Nothing. He had his weapon out of its holster, and he had been shot at close range, in the forehead. That’s as much as we know. The body’s been taken to the coroner.”

“Geez. Darin’s married and has some kids, doesn’t he?”

“Two, and one on the way.”

Dan shook his head, imagining how Darin’s wife was going to react to the news. “What’s up with this?” He nodded toward the body that had been cut down and was being placed on a stretcher.

“I wish I knew. While the deputies were securing the crime scene, one of them came down here and found this man hanging under the bridge.”

“A suicide?”

“Not likely. His hands are tied behind his back. Do you recognize him?”

Dan looked again toward the body as the EMTs were preparing to place the collapsible gurney in the ambulance. Reluctantly, he walked to where he could look at the contorted and discolored face.

“Damn! McFarland!”

“Then you do know him?” Tony said.

Dan nodded slowly. “He’s a member of the 324^th. Lieutenant Richard McFarland.”

Tony jotted down the name.

A male civilian in a suit spoke from behind them. “Are you a member of this man’s military unit?”

Dan looked at the man and turned back toward Tony, hesitating.

“Dan, this is Special Agent Samuels and his partner, Special Agent Bentley, of the FBI. They arrived about thirty minutes ago.”

Dan nodded, looked back toward the stretcher, and then responded to Samuels. “We’re both in the 324^th Mechanized Infantry Battalion, California National Guard. McFarland is. . was. . a platoon leader. . a lieutenant.”

“Are you his commander?” Agent Bentley asked.

Dan turned away from the stretcher now being loaded into the ambulance and focused his gaze on Bentley, who appeared to be in her late twenties. She was dressed in a tailored, dark-blue suit. Her hair was jet black and cut close, just above the neck line. She stood about five-five in low heels, Dan noticed, and presented herself as all business.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m assigned to the JAG. Richard was a grunt.”

“Grunt?” she questioned, then nodded her understanding. “Infantry.”

“That’s right,” Dan said.

“Did you have frequent contact with Lieutenant McFarland?” Bentley continued.

Again Dan hesitated, his thoughts gathering after the shock of seeing McFarland hanging by the neck from a thin strand of what appeared to be nylon ski rope. As his legal training kicked in, his mind began to function more formally, and he addressed his comments to Tony.

“Are we still in Yolo County, Tony? I mean, the Sacramento County line is over the river, isn’t it?