American Voices
Publisher: Valor Publishing Group
Publication Date: May, 2010
Binding: Hardbound, 445 pages
CHAPTER ONE
Vietnam Veteran’s Memorial Bridge
Interstate 5, north of Sacramento, California
January, 2012
Had the gallows knot been properly placed to the side, behind the ear, Richard McFarland’s neck would have snapped and death would have come swiftly. As it was, it required a long, agonizing two minutes before the young California National Guard lieutenant died.
In the predawn hours, the light was barely sufficient to see, but Otto Krueger, First Sergeant of the Shasta Brigade, a northern California militia unit of dubious intent, kept his eyes riveted to the gruesome scene. Walter’s younger companions had less stomach for the sight of Lieutenant McFarland twisting in the pre-dawn breeze.
Killing the two California Superior Court justices with a quick bullet in the back of the head had been easy compared to this assignment, but Commander Shaw had been adamant: “Make it plain that the brigade will not tolerate traitors or spies.”
“For crying out loud, First Sergeant, can we please leave?” one of the two men with Krueger pleaded.
The grizzled veteran pulled his eyes from the ghastly sight and glanced derisively toward the kid who had made the plea. He spat a stream of tobacco juice on the ground and returned his gaze toward the body. Standing five feet nine inches and weighing one hundred eighty pounds, First Sergeant Otto Krueger was rock solid. Dense tattoos extended from beneath his rolled-up sleeves, running from biceps to wrists on both arms. His sandy-colored hair, cropped to a uniform half-inch length, added to his appearance as a balding, but very fit, muscular man.
He looked back at the young would-be soldier who was now on his knees in the dirt, struggling to avoid further embarrassment.
“It’s a war, Private. This loser chose the wrong side,” Krueger said. He stepped to the slowly swaying body, took hold of a dangling boot and turned the body enough for the available light to reflect off McFarland’s distorted face.
The sound of retching caused Krueger to turn around again. The smaller of the two young recruits who had been assigned to accompany Krueger on this mission was still on his knees, several yards from the truck, relieving himself of the sandwich he had eaten on the drive south.
Krueger sneered. “You wanna stay in the Shasta Brigade, mister, you better get a stronger stomach. They’ll be no momma’s boys in my outfit. You volunteered for this mission. Now get in the backseat and shut up. If you puke again, you walk home—or you could join our friend here,” he said, jerking the boot again and swinging the body around in circles.
The kid didn’t reply, but wiped his mouth on his sleeve and stumbled toward the pickup.
“Ted, close it up and let’s get out of here,” Krueger ordered the other, even younger, teenage recruit.
Ted vaulted into the back of the truck and closed the lid on the side-to-side aluminum toolbox bolted to the back of the cab in which they had imprisoned the lieutenant during the drive from their base camp in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. He then jumped down and slammed the tailgate on which, moments before, the trembling accountant, who doubled as a week-end soldier, had been made to stand, his desperate eyes silently pleading for mercy while Krueger had placed the rope around his neck.
The First Sergeant climbed in behind the wheel and started the engine on the Ford F-150, dual cab 4x4 pickup. With a final glance at the slowly twisting body, Otto spat a wad of chewing tobacco out the window and floored the accelerator, spinning dirt and debris over the lifeless remains of Lieutenant Richard McFarlane, platoon commander, 324th Mechanized Battalion, California National Guard.
The truck bucked and lurched as Krueger steered out of the dry river bed and up the embankment toward the end of the bridge. As they neared the highway, headlights suddenly blinded them as another vehicle rounded the bridge abutment, facing Krueger’ truck and blocking their return to the highway. Otto jammed on the brakes and reached to the seat beside him for his pistol. He sat motionless for several seconds until the occupant of the other vehicle got out, training a flashlight on the driver’s side of the Ford and approached from the front.
“Got a problem here?” a voice called out.
In the dusty glare of the headlights, Krueger recognized the uniform of a Yolo County sheriff’s deputy.
“Quiet!” he mouthed softly. “Not a word from either of you,” he added, climbing out of the vehicle, his pistol shielded behind his back.
“No problem, Officer,” Krueger called out. “Just looking for a good spot to fish.”
“Step into the light, please,” the deputy called toward Krueger.
Dust hung in air, reflected by the headlights as Krueger came forward into the space between the two vehicles while the deputy continued to stand to one side of his Chevy Tahoe.
“Not looking for any trouble, Officer,” Otto said, his voice friendly. “Like I said, just looking for a good fishing spot.”
The deputy stepped forward a couple of paces, shining his flashlight toward the interior of Otto’s truck and catching the reflection of two additional faces. He hesitated and moved his hand slowly toward his holster. Otto quickly stepped forward, closing the gap between the two men, his smile visible beneath the twin headlamps of both vehicles.
“Just my two nephews, Officer. Nothing to worry about.”
“Can I see some identification, please?” the officer asked.
“Certainly, Officer. Will this do?” Krueger said, extending the pistol toward the deputy and continuing to smile as he quickly closed the remaining distance between the two men.
The deputy’s face changed immediately and he quickly reached to unsnap his holster and withdraw the revolver. Krueger continued to smile as the seconds extended to what seemed like minutes. Before the deputy’s weapon cleared the holster, Krueger reached out and seized the man’s wrist in a vice-like grip, preventing him from raising his arm. His eyes only inches from the deputy’s face, Krueger slowly shook his head at the younger man while holding the officer’s arm rigid, rendering the deputy’s revolver immobile in his hand.
“It’s a dangerous profession you’ve chosen, young fella,” Krueger said, raising his .45-caliber military issue pistol toward the man’s face.
Without a further word, Krueger fired one round directly into the deputy’s forehead, released his grip on the man’s wrist and watched the wide-eyed law enforcement officer sprawl backwards. Krueger stared at the fallen deputy for several seconds and then turned and fired one round into each of the Tahoe’s headlamps, extinguishing the glaring lights. Then he leaned down, grasped the dead man’s hand, which contained the revolver and, using the man’s own finger, fired two rounds into the air, before dropping the hand and the gun back to the ground. He retraced his steps to his truck, entered the driver’s seat, and threw the vehicle into gear, once again spinning tires and maneuvering around the sheriff’s vehicle, pulling onto the highway.
“Dude, that was a sheriff’s deputy,” the young man in the rear seat of the extended cab truck whined to his young companion, “and he shot him. He killed a cop!”
“You’re right, Private, he was a deputy. Now he’s nuthin’.”
CHAPTER TWO
Davis, California
Daniel Rawlings stood under the shower nozzle, his head tilted back and his eyes closed. Rivulets of steaming hot water ran down his face as he tried to wash away the night sweat and the anxiety that always accompanied the dream. For over two years, he had been haunted by the same, recurring nightmare. It always woke him and left him sitting up in bed, his heart racing. Over and over he had been forced by an involuntary, self-inflicted penance to watch Susan die, each time as realistically as the first, though in the dream his wife’s face was now absent—replaced by a blurred image beneath her fur-lined hood.
He’d knelt in the snow and held her in his arms while she died, but she’d not been able to speak, and ever since, he’d been unable to convince himself that there wasn’t something, anything, that he could have done to prevent her death.
The dream always brought Dan awake, sweating and trembling, wishing for the thousandth time that it might only be a dream. Then, unable to erase the gruesome image from his mind or fall back to sleep, he would get out of bed and climb into the shower, hoping that the hot water and steam might somehow purge the painful memories.
Stepping out of the shower, Dan toweled off, wiped the steam from the bathroom mirror, and began to lather his face. He and Susan had been married for less than a year when she had died and his morning ritual—a return to reality more than an awakening from sleep—was born of frustration at a reluctant but forced acceptance of the ever-present nightmare, of Susan’s absence, and the brevity of the “eternal” marriage they had been promised in the Temple ceremony. A widower at the ripe old age of twenty-eight, eternity seemed a long time away.
The one redeeming benefit of his waking so early was that after clearing his head of the memories, he was able to shift mentally into another frame of mind and make good use of the pre-dawn hours to work on the novel he was writing. He had spent hundreds of hours at his computer, his imaginary characters filling the lonely void in his life. In many respects, Voices in my Blood had been his salvation.
Despite the bitter cold of the winter morning, sweat saturated the young soldier’s ragged uniform and salty droplets ran from his forehead, stinging his eyes. Four of them lay abreast in their shallow, log bunker, waiting the next assault by the British regulars.
“There’s no hope, Ned,” the young man said, his voice tight with fear.
“Don’t give in, Tommy, we ain’t dead yet. An’ you’ll see, sure as shootin’, Ethan’s boys’ll come swoopin’ down outta them Green Mountains and the redcoats’ll scatter like scared rabbits.”
Nearly four hundred and fifty pages of his heart and soul, not to mention personal satisfaction, derived from the effort, lay on his desk, ready to be sealed in a U.S. Priority Mail envelope and sent off to a New York literary agent. Born of a year’s worth of sleeplessness, early morning hours and long, nighttime sessions which had replaced in large part any semblance of a social life, the book he hoped would be the next great American novel was finally finished.
Rawlings had needed an outlet for the persistent pain, and he had turned to what he had come to think of as “the voices in his blood” for diversion. Fired by the stories told him by his grandfather, Jack Rumsey, Dan’s feelings for his ancestors had always been strong, but in researching and writing their histories, he had developed a sense of being literally connected to them. Unable to objectively judge its worth, Dan came to view his novel—tentatively titled Voices in my Blood—as a catharsis for his grief following the death of his bride. The task of writing a novel had proven far more daunting than he had imagined, but it had also consumed him.
The Rumsey family, his progenitors on his mother’s side of the family, had come from England to the American colonies with the first wave of settlers, early in the seventeenth century. Over several generations they had pioneered the frontiers and been involved in pushing the borders of the fledgling United States ever westward, some crossing the plains in the traditional route, crosses marking the extent of their passage; others embarking with the colony of Mormons who left New York and sailed around the Horn on the Brooklyn, bound for Yerba Buena, later to be named San Francisco. His fifth great-grandfather, Angus Macabee, an 1840’s Mormon convert from upstate New York, had been aboard that vessel, but had never made it inland from California to the struggling community Brigham Young founded in Salt Lake City, having been caught up in the gold rush shortly after the Brooklyn’s arrival. Any ties to the fledgling Mormon church has quickly been forgotten.
The Rumsey’s, a current day amalgamation of Macabee’s, Standish’s, Morrin’s, and a host of other Anglo-Saxon and northern European names, together with a smattering of native American Indian blood, had lived, labored, fought, and propagated during a volatile and romantic period in American history, following a restless bent that brought them at last to the fertile valleys of central and northern California. Then, several years before Dan was born, his mother, in a twist of fate, has reconnected with the LDS Church, been baptized, and Dan was born into the Church unaware of the century long lapse since his great grandfather’s lust for gold.
Dan Rawlings loved the beautiful Rumsey Valley, nestled in the eastern foothills of the California coastal range, northwest of Sacramento, where another branch of his ancestors had eventually settled in 1867, the final stop for the formerly South Carolina Rumsey’s who moved west after the Civil War. It was where he had chosen to continue living, surrounded by the echoes of the past.
Rawlings had found it easy to identify with these robust, often reckless people. Indeed, after he had researched their names, histories and genealogy, the characters had taken on lives of their own, something Dan found immensely intriguing. The daily task of writing had become an adventure, and as he turned on his computer each morning, he did so with a feeling of curiosity, wondering what it was his characters might end up doing as he explored their lives and feelings. The “voices in his blood” sang to him, and he found it emotionally satisfying to speculate about their lives, and, in fact, to embellish their stories.
After earning a degree in political science from Brigham Young University, Dan served an LDS mission to Ireland, returned home and graduated from Stanford Law School. Out of a sense of patriotism or perhaps a family sense of performing their civic duty, he joined the California National Guard in Sacramento, spending six months on active duty at Fort Belvoir, Virginia and becoming a JAG officer.
His marriage and sealing to Susan, in the Oakland Temple, completed what he felt was the foundation of a wonderful life, personally and professionally. Landing a job as city attorney in Susanville, California, high in the Sierra Nevada mountains, was the finishing touch. With work he loved to do and living near the skiing that Susan loved so much, the two of them seemed destined to enjoy the good life. But Susan’s tragic death just one year later had instantly changed all that. She was twenty-four. He was twenty-six. And their eternal marriage was barely one.
Five months after the accident, still numb from the loss and unable to deal with the memories he and Susan had built in Susanville, Dan resigned his position as city attorney and accepted a job as county administrator in Yolo County, near Sacramento, returning to the geographic roots of his ancestors. Rather than live in Woodland, the county seat, and the town where the county offices were located, he had chosen to live in Davis, near the University of California, where he would have easy access to the library and its resources. Dan had disciplined himself to work at least a few hours each day on his manuscript and the daily routine had proven to be his salvation in the two years that had passed since Susan’s death. He had settled into a lonely but comfortable routine, and it was only a fifteen-minute drive to work—just enough time to clear his head and make the transition from aspiring novelist to county administrator.
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 medical, was, to his way of thinking, indiscernible from an actual physiological trauma.
But there were also satisfying memories. Even now, two years after the accident, 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, 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 in Sacrament service, the moisture in her eyes when a particular note of emotion touched her heart. 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 eternal companion and the absence of those unspoken feelings left him empty, even inconsolably bereft of emotion at times.
His grandfather had been right. Life often wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t! 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. It also wasn’t fair that he had gone through the entire first year after her death attending church, alone, but quietly refusing to partake of the Sacrament, and had not even visited the Temple grounds in Oakland once in the ensuing two years.
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 before 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 that 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, “Dan, can you meet me on I-5 at the north end of the Memorial Bridge?”
“Sure. I don’t have a staff meeting ’til ten. What’s up?”
“I’d, uh, rather talk with you in person, Dan.”
“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 parked on the shoulder of the road on both sides of the bridge. Dan parked his Blazer and got out to peer over the side of the bridge. Parked 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 was hanging 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, Dan,” 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.
“Dan, 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 him lying alongside the car. He’d been shot in the head.”
“I can’t believe it. Any theories about 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.
“McFarland!”
“Then you do know him?” Tony said.
Dan nodded slowly. “He’s a member of the 324th. Lieutenant Richard McFarlane.”
Tony jotted down the name.
A male civilian in a suit spoke up 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 324th Mechanized Infantry Battalion, California National Guard. McFarlane 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. In her late twenties, Agent Bentley 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 McFarlane?” Bentley continued.
Again Dan hesitated, his thoughts gathering after the shock of seeing McFarlane hanging by the neck from a thin strand of 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?
“Yep, this is still my jurisdiction. But if, as you say, the deceased is a federal military officer, then Agents Samuels and Bentley may have priority in the investigation.”
“Agent Bentley, if you don’t mind, before answering your question, I’d like to call our commander, General Del Valle.”
“That will be fine, uh, Mr.…”
“Dan Rawlings. I’m the county administrator here in Yolo County and a captain in the guard’s JAG Corps.”
“Well, Mr.…Captain Rawlings, we intended to call for an appointment with General Del Valle immediately after we leave here. Perhaps we could all meet together.”
“Fine. I’ll call the general and apprise him of the situation. If you’ll excuse me,” he said, stepping away and walking back up the slope toward his car, followed by Tony.
“What’s the story, Tony? How’d the Feds get involved so quickly?”
“I don’t have a clue. They were here within forty minutes of when the body was reported.”
Dan halted and looked at his friend. “I’m sorry, Tony. It’s not been a good morning for either of us, has it?”
“I’ve had better,” Tony said, shaking his head. “Look, you call your general and I’ll finish here with the crime scene. I’ll stop by your office this afternoon or in the morning and let you know what we find—if anything.”
“Okay,” Dan said, already dialing his cell phone.
The phone was answered on the second ring. “California National Guard, Master Sergeant Pitama speaking.”
“This is Captain Rawlings. Is the general in yet?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll put you through, Captain.”
Dan stood outside the driver’s side of his car, waiting for the call to be connected and watched as the ambulance with McFarlane’s body lumbered up the slope, slowly traversed the multiple vehicles, and made its way onto the highway. Down the slope, Agents Samuels and Bentley were talking with Sheriff Sanchez.
“General Del Valle,” the phone echoed.
“Sir, this is Captain Rawlings. We’ve had an unfortunate incident with one of our officers…Lieutenant Richard McFarlane.”
“I know the young man, Captain. What’s happened to him?”
“He’s dead, sir.”
“Dead? How?”
“He’s was found hanged.”
“A suicide?”
“The sheriff doesn’t think so. I’m on scene at the I-5 bridge leading into Yolo County. Two FBI agents are here with the sheriff and have advised me that they would like to meet with you this morning. Is it possible that we come in immediately, sir?”
“Captain, does this have anything to do with ‘Deadbolt’?”
“It could, Sir, but there’s no way of knowing at this point, General.”
“I’m booked for my annual helicopter check ride at 10:00. You say you’re at the I-5 bridge into Yolo?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. I’ll cancel the IP and reschedule. Meet me at the private plane area at Sacramento International. I’ll be there at, uh, 10:30. Be on the runway side of the hanger. And tell the FBI agents I’ll see them in my office at 4:00.”
“Yes, sir. Sacramento airport at 10:30,” Dan repeated, checking his watch.
Dan punched “end” on the phone’s keyboard and walked back down to where Sheriff Sanchez and the two FBI agents were still in conversation. He waited several moments until their discussion ended and Agent Samuels looked at him.
“General Del Valle said 4:00 this afternoon. If there’s nothing else, I’ll meet you at the Sacramento Armory at 4:00.”
“That’ll be fine, Captain. Thank you for your cooperation,” Samuels said.
Dan glanced quickly at Bentley and gave a loose wave to Tony.
“I’ll talk to you later, Tony. Call my cell phone if anything breaks.”
“Right, Dan. Sorry about your friend.”
“And Deputy Collins, Tony,” Dan said, retracing his steps to his vehicle.
Pulling onto I-5, Dan thought momentarily about driving home and changing out of his suit into his uniform. It was nearly 9:00, and General Del Valle had said to be there at 10:30. Just barely time. He drove up over the bridge and headed north on I-5 toward the Davis exit.
Just over an hour later, on the return trip, some of the emergency vehicles were still gathered at the crime scene as Dan drove over the bridge again. The sight of McFarlane, his face purplish and distorted, had etched itself into Dan’s mind, an image he now wished he could have avoided. He already had one of those—of his wife, Susan—and for over two years it had plagued his nightly dreams.
McFarlane had only been on his infiltration assignment three months and in the guard less than a year. Clearly the Shasta Brigade was dangerous, if indeed, they were responsible. But who else? The extremist, paramilitary group had already claimed responsibility for killing two federal judges, hadn’t they? At least, someone in the patriot movement had, and according to army intelligence, the Shasta Brigade was integrally involved in the movement. If it proved true, there was no turning back for the brigade and killing a National Guard lieutenant wasn’t going to make matters any worse, although Deputy Collins was a different story. Killing a cop always brought out the wrath of the blue brotherhood from other law enforcement agencies.
Dan turned his Chevy Blazer onto the approach road to the airport and pulled into the first parking area, in front of the private plane ramp. As he walked toward the hanger, he saw the guard helicopter approaching the far side of the building and could see General Del Valle at the controls. If the general was his usual self, he’d want answers and he’d want them now.
How did the FBI get to the crime scene so quickly? Sheriff Sanchez had never before mentioned their involvement in a local murder case. Sure, McFarlane was a federal military officer, but for two FBI agents to be on scene within an hour of notification? There was more to their presence than was readily apparent. That was one question Del Valle would ask immediately and one for which Dan had no answers.
