“Why are you talking like a tour guide?” Guy asked.
“Am I? I’m sorry. But I want you to understand this place, if you insist on writing about it.”
“We’re not looking for Virge Scurlock, are we?”
“Not really. That was an excuse to get you here. I knew none of the others would come along.”
“You didn’t need an excuse. You could’ve just asked me.”
“I suppose so, but I know you’ve been here before. I was afraid you’d already drawn your own conclusions and wouldn’t want my input.”
“I don’t work that way.”
“Good.” Now she was aware of a curious detachment, as if someone else had taken over her mind and body. She began walking along the stream bed. Everything was familiar — that rock, that tree, this curve of the bank. Etched into her mind many years before, yet she felt no connection. The graveled path that had led to the bridge had mostly washed away during a dozen rainy seasons, yet...
She stopped, faced Guy. “This is the spot where Heath Wynne died. In my arms.”
He looked down at the ground, then up into her eyes. Silently. His eyes, she saw, were changed, as if something in her experience had communicated itself to something in his.
“If you’re to write this story,” she said, “there are things you need to know. You have to get it right. To do justice to the victims, our town, and my department. I can tell and show you those things.”
“Do you want me to write it?”
“I think so, but even if I didn’t, I know I couldn’t stop you.”
“Probably not. The Harrisons, Susan Wynne’s family, want it told. For, I think, the same reasons you do.”
“Closure.”
“And answers. There are answers hidden here. And I’ve a reputation as a man who can get them.”
Guy stood with Rhoda next to the eggbeater sculpture in front of the geodesic dome and experienced the night of the murders through her halting words.
“In her nine-one-one call, Virge said the shots she’d heard definitely came from the canyon. I was first on the scene and found the Blakeleys’ bodies in their house. I called for backup and an ambulance and was on my way here to check on the others when I heard someone moaning.”
“Heath.”
She nodded. “He was close to death, and there was nothing I could do except try to comfort him, but I think I talked myself into believing that somehow I could make him hold on. You know how you do that under certain circumstances? Imagine your will is so strong that by force of it you can prevent the inevitable?”
Oh yes, he knew. When Diana was shot he’d thrown his body across hers, imagining he could protect her, even though the bullet had already entered her brain, even though she was already gone.
“What is it?” Rhoda asked.
She’d seen his pain. He turned away from her, stared up at Forrest Wynne’s enormous sculpture. He’d never spoken with anyone about that subject except on the most factual and superficial of terms, and he certainly wouldn’t go into it with a relative stranger.
He said, “Your experience is becoming very real to me.”
“Is it? Ever since we came into the canyon I’ve felt as though I’m sleepwalking.”
“That’s natural. You’re insulating yourself. How quickly did your backup get here?”
“Very. We’ve got a good response rate. Wayne was first. He found Heath and me, directed the EMTs to us. Afterwards he and I found the little girl who survived. I’ll show you where later.”
“That was Heath’s sister, Oriana. Where were their parents?”
“In the dome. Dead of multiple gunshot wounds. Because of that, and the fact that each of the Blakeleys was shot only once, we assumed at first that the Wynnes were the shooters’ primary targets. But when Wayne and another deputy found Bernhard Ulrick...”
“He was in his drug lab?”
“Yes. Wayne saw a light burning up canyon and they went to investigate. I stayed down by the Blakeley house with Oriana. She wouldn’t let anybody but me touch her. Anyway, Ulrick had been shot repeatedly with a semiautomatic weapon. His body was literally shredded.”
“How did Wayne handle the situation?”
“He was badly shaken. We all were. None of us had ever encountered that kind of crime scene. But you know, he maintained fairly good control until he went into the Blakeley house to see how the evidence collection was going. When he came out he ran through the trees to that old car that’s still sitting there and beat on it with his fists.”
That could mean Claudia Blakeley had been more than a casual lay to the deputy, Guy thought.
“Why’re you asking about Wayne?”
He didn’t want to tell her about Gilardi and the Blakeley woman, not yet at least. “I guess because, aside from you, he’s the only person I’ve met who was here that night.”
“He’s the only person who was here, aside from me, who’s still alive or in the area. Station Commander Warren died six, seven years ago. Detective Lieutenant Marx, who headed the investigation, got a job with Yolo County. The others are working in other parts of the state or out of law enforcement entirely. That investigation really cost the department.”
“Because the murders were never solved?”
“Yes. And because the FBI made it plain that they considered us both inept and corrupt. And because people didn’t want to live in a place where something that horrible had happened. But we weren’t inept or corrupt. We were human. We made mistakes.”
“Such as?”
“When I interviewed Virge I got the sequence of what she heard screwed up. Wayne misplaced the blood samples from the scene of Ulrick’s death. We all overlooked things, didn’t secure the scene properly. But even big, experienced law enforcement agencies make those kinds of errors. I’ve always thought the real fault was in Sheriff Caxton’s failure to bring in the FBI right away. He had a big ego, wanted his people to solve a case that made national headlines. It wasn’t until the victims’ families pressured that he gave in, and then it was too late.”
Rhoda looked so pained that Guy shelved his line of questioning and started toward the geodesic dome. Its windows were filthy, and it resembled a deflating balloon, gradually caving in upon itself. When he turned the knob and pushed, the door stuck in its frame, swollen by moisture.
Initially the room beyond was disorienting, its curving walls giving him the impression he’d stepped under an inverted bowl. A kettledrum fireplace with seating around it stood at its center, and beyond that pie-shaped areas devoted to various activities were separated by low partitions. The kitchen was small but well equipped, the play area overflowing with toys. Archways opened to the additions he’d seen from outside. As in the Blakeley house, a thick layer of dust overlay everything, as well as the handiwork of spiders and rats. Two chalked outlines showed faintly on the floor by the fireplace, and—
Guy squatted down and sighted along the linoleum. Old footprints, like those he’d noticed at the Blakeley house the day before. Similar large size, similar tread. A persistent thrill-seeker, or someone with a real purpose?
“What’s that you’re looking at?” Rhoda asked.
He hadn’t heard her come up behind him, and when he started, he realized how badly the scene had him spooked. “Somebody’s been here recently. There’re footprints in the dust. At the Blakeley house, too.”
“How recently?”
“Not in the past twenty-four hours, if that’s what you’re thinking. But within the past year.” He stood. “I see where two people died. Forrest and Susan?”
“Right.”
“What about the sister?”