vegetation that was getting greener as they gained altitude.
They finally arrived at Bear Lake. Set amid groves of pine trees, up a beautiful long sloping lawn that stretched up about fifty yards from Bear Lake, was a lovely old two-story building of weathered wood, each room featuring glass doors and a small terrace that gave onto the lake. There were several piers that went some fifty feet out into the calm blue water, where half a dozen canoes and several powerboats were tied up. Lovely white- painted chairs and benches were scattered over the manicured lawn. But it was winter, and even though it was in the high fifties today, no one was outside to appreciate it.
They left their rented cherry-red Pontiac Grand Am in a small parking lot set amid a grouping of pine trees and walked on a flagstone path to the discreet entrance. Nick looked up at the crystal-clear sky, at the cumulus clouds that were sweeping lazily overhead. She turned a moment to look at Bear Lake glistening beneath a noonday sun, snow glinting on the peaks in the distance. There was only a light spray of snow around Bear Lake.
Nick stood still a moment, staring out toward the lake. It was as still as a postcard. She said, “I think this is a beautiful place, but somehow, I don’t know why, I just don’t like it.”
She turned, sped up, and entered the double glass doors, which led into a large lobby. In the center was a large wooden counter with offices behind it.
Behind the counter stood a stout woman with curly black hair and a very pretty smile. The name on her tag read Velvet Weaver. With the thin black mustache over her upper lip, she didn’t look much like a Velvet.
Dane introduced both himself and Nick, showed her his FBI shield.
“Oh dear, I hope there’s nothing wrong.”
“This is just routine, Ms. Weaver,” Dane said easily. “Just a couple of questions we hope you can help us with. Could you please tell us about one of your patient’s sons, a Mr. Weldon DeLoach?”
Velvet nodded. “I suppose there’s nothing wrong with that. Yes, a lovely man, Mr. DeLoach, a wonderful son. You know, he’s this big TV writer in Hollywood and so it’s only the best for his father.”
“Is Mr. Weldon DeLoach here right now? Visiting with his father?”
“Oh no, Agent Carver, Weldon hasn’t been here for a week, at least not that I know of. Of course, he could have visited when I wasn’t on duty. I’ll ask around for you. I was wondering just the other day when he was coming to see his father again. Not that Captain DeLoach knows when his son is here, poor man. Dementia, you know, for about the last six years now. Is something wrong with Weldon?”
Dane shook his head. “Nothing at all. As I said, this is just routine, Ms. Weaver. Now, I understand that Captain DeLoach is a retired police officer?”
“Yes, he was the captain of this small-town police department in the central valley for nearly forty years.”
“Do you remember the name of the town?” Dane asked.
“Dadeville. It’s a good-sized town now. Not all that far from Bakersfield. Poor man, but he’s eighty-seven years old and human parts break down. It’s sad, but Captain DeLoach doesn’t seem to be in any particular distress about it. It’s usually that way. What you can’t remember doesn’t hurt you.”
“He’s that old?” Nick said.
“Yes. Weldon was his only child, born when Captain DeLoach was already well into his forties. Captain DeLoach, when he remembers, tells everyone that it was his third marriage, and his wife was much younger.
“She died, I believe, in some sort of accident when Weldon was only four years old. Captain DeLoach never remarried. He raised Weldon. And he’s a very good son; he’s paid for his father to be here for nearly ten years now. Never complains about any of the extras, always comes to visit.”
Ms. Weaver paused, looked a bit worried. “May I ask you why you’re here, Agent Carver? I know you said it was just routine, but still-would you like to speak to our manager, Mr. Latterley? He isn’t here right now, but I could have him call you.”
“That’s not necessary, but thank you, Ms. Weaver. We’ll speak to Mr. Latterley later. We’re really here to see Captain DeLoach. Will that be a problem, Ms. Weaver?”
“Not at all, but let me warn you not to expect much. Captain DeLoach normally just sits about, looking out at the lake and the mountains. It’s very peaceful here, very soothing for the soul. I know he enjoys watching people water-ski. Of course, now that it’s winter, there’s not much of that.”
Nick said, “What does Weldon look like, Ms. Weaver?”
“A lovely man, is Weldon. Let’s see, I suppose he’d have to be in his early forties. He’s fair-skinned, light hair, although, you know, he’s always really tanned, told me once that he was real proud of that tan. And he’s very creative. Always has ideas for the old folks here, things to keep them involved, to keep their brains going.”
“Yes, I see,” Nick said, and looked over at Dane. How could Weldon DeLoach possibly be the man she’d seen in the church? But then, why had the man used aliases that were so like Weldon’s name?
Dane walked down the long, wide, very pleasant corridor. Landscapes lined both sides of the white walls. He wondered about Weldon DeLoach. How was he involved in all this? Did someone hate him so much as to implicate him so directly in the murders?
Nick said quietly so Ms. Weaver wouldn’t hear, not looking at him but at the soft watercolor landscapes, “How can Weldon be the monster? Can he be that good with disguises?”
“We’ll find out.”
“Here’s Captain DeLoach’s room,” Ms. Weaver said, and raised her hand to knock. They heard a groan from inside. Dane didn’t hesitate, he was through the door in under a second.
TWENTY
The old man was on the floor beside his overturned wheelchair, moaning softly, a small rivulet of dried blood on his face that had dripped off his chin and onto the floor.
Dane turned to Nick, but she was already gone, probably with Velvet Weaver, to the nurses’ station to get help.
“Captain DeLoach,” Dane said, leaning close, “can you hear me, sir? Can you tell me what happened?”
The old man opened his eyes. He didn’t look like he was in pain, just dazed.
“Can you hear me, sir? See me?”
“Yes, I can see you. Who are you?”
“I’m Special Agent Dane Carver, FBI.”
Slowly, very slowly, the old man lifted his trembling, deeply veined hand, and he saluted.
Dane was charmed. He saluted him back. Then he gently wrapped his hand around the old man’s and slowly lowered it. “You fell out of your chair?”
“Oh no, Special Agent,” he said in a voice that sounded otherworldly it was so whispery thin. “He was here again and I told him I wouldn’t keep quiet anymore, and he hit me.”
“Who, Captain? Who hit you?”
“My son.”
“Hey! What happened here?”
A nurse fell to her knees beside Captain DeLoach, feeling his pulse, cupping her hand around his ancient face. “Captain, it’s Carla. You fell out of your chair again, didn’t you?”
The old man groaned.
“All right. Now, let me clean the blood off your face, see how bad it is. You’ve got to be more careful, you know that. If you want to run around the room, just call one of us and we’ll steer you. We’ll even hold races if that’s what you’d like. Now, just lie still, Captain, and I’ll take care of everything.”
Captain DeLoach’s eyes closed. Dane couldn’t rouse him.
Weldon DeLoach had hit his father and knocked him out of his chair? But Velvet had said Weldon hadn’t been around for a week. She also said that the old man usually didn’t know his own name. Dane held the old man’s hand until Carla came back into the room. An orderly, a big Filipino man, lifted him in his arms and carried him to the bed. The old man looked like a bunch of old bones barely knit together, his pale, veined flesh wrapped in a bright blue flannel shirt and baggy pants. There were thick socks on his feet, and only one bedroom slipper. The other slipper
