When he left a short time later, he acknowledged a sense that before it was all over, this case would personally touch many more in this small valley. And he sensed, also, that it was going to get ugly.

Sunday, March 7

5:10 A.M.

Back in his SUV, Reed let out a long breath. That had been particularly unpleasant. There were things you just didn’t want to know about neighbors or old classmates.

Reed gazed a moment at the horizon, the first glimmers of light announcing the new day had arrived, like it or not. He flipped open his phone and punched in Tanner’s number.

She answered almost immediately. “Please tell me the wife did it. That the evidence was not only overwhelming but she spilled a full confession.”

“Sorry, Babs. No evidence, no confession. Just a tearful widow who’ll be so much better off without her prick of a husband.”

“You’re no damn fun at all.”

“Tell me about it. According to her, they left the party together around twelve thirty. They fought about his latest girlfriend and she kicked him out of the car. Says he was drunk on his ass and only too happy to escape her bitching.”

“That’s where Meri Calvin comes in.”

He heard the fatigue in her voice. “How’s it going there?”

“Slow. There’s a lot of blood to collect. We’ve got footprints, tire tracks and debris to sift through.” She sighed heavily. “It’ll be awhile.”

“You have my sympathy. I’m going to swing home, shower, change and eat, then head to the Barn. You got Schwann’s cell phone?”

“Bagged and tagged.”

“Wife said when she pulled away he was already on it. My guess is he called Meri. But you never know.”

“I’ll get you the call record ASAP.”

“And here I thought you’d call me a demanding bastard.”

“Give me a minute.”

He laughed, told her to keep in touch and hung up.

A little over an hour later, Reed arrived back at the Barn. Schwann’s cell phone call record was waiting for him on his desk. A yellow Post-it attached read: As usual, you owe me.

He grinned. As usual, he did. He tossed the Post-it, sat and studied the list.

Schwann had made four calls between twelve forty-two and twelve fifty-nine. The first, third and fourth had been to the same number. Meri Calvin’s was his guess. And easy enough to check.

Reed swung toward his computer terminal, fired it up and tapped in the appropriate code. The responding officer would have taken her contact information; he should have already inputted his report.

Sure enough, he had. Reed scrolled through the information, stopping on Calvin’s entry.

Her cell number matched the one Schwann had dialed three times the night before. Made perfect sense, Reed decided. He’d called her first, cooled his heels, then being his impatient demanding self, had called two more times. And in between he had called someone else and been on with them two and a half minutes. Who?

Maybe the person who had killed him.

He opened his cell phone and punched in the number. It connected and rang; he counted fifteen rings before he ended the call. So much for the quick and easy way. He made a note to expedite getting the information from the phone company.

“No rest for the wicked, man.”

Reed looked up. A sleepy-looking Cal stood at his cubicle door. “What’s up, dude? Why not out at the Schwann scene?”

“Got called off.” He yawned. “Wanted to let you know, we got that analysis back on the doll late yesterday. Tested negative for blood.”

“Okay.” Reed inclined his head. “Looks more like a stupid prank now. I would have had a hard time picturing a couple spoiled teenagers slaughtering a farm animal for a joke.”

Cal yawned again, and backed out the door. “Wish me luck staying awake.”

“What’s going?”

“More weird Sonoma Valley shit. Somebody’s built their own little church up by Castle Road. Got ourselves an altar and all sorts of crazy symbols. Biker called it in.”

“Our corner of the world at its best.”

“No joke. We got our Bohemian Grove in Monte Rio, the Manson Family in San Francisco and Shambahala up north. Why not a bit of animal sacrifice in Sonoma?”

He started off; Reed stopped him. “Did you say animal sacrifice?”

“Yeah, maybe. That’s what the biker thought, but who knows?”

“If you confirm that, let me know. I might want to check it out.”

Less than an hour later, Cal confirmed and Reed headed up to the site. The spot had been an observation point and picnic area. It not only overlooked the valley, but on a clear day, offered a view of the Golden Gate Bridge.

“What’s the nearest winery?” Reed asked.

“Bart Park. Up and around the bend. Ceased public tours two years ago. Looks like this spot was a casualty.”

Reed could make out the peak of a roof through the stand of oak trees. “Casualty is right,” he muttered. “Not quite what tourists come for.”

“Come on, my brother,” Cal said, “what’s a day in wine country without a little alternative religion?”

Reed crossed to the altar. It sat in a six-foot circle that had been created with rocks. What had been a concrete picnic table had been transformed into the altar. On its top, the remnants of black candles, sitting in pools of dried wax. Inverted letters, stars and a pentagram had been drawn on the top and sides. Greenery had been collected and arranged around the altar, notably grape stalks and vines.

Reed frowned. Sure, the thought of some nut job up here burning black candles and scribbling pentagrams was unnerving, but the unmistakable stain on the table and ground below was downright disturbing.

Blood. And plenty of it.

Reed studied the stain. Blood had an unmistakable quality to the way it ran and puddled. The dark reddish-brown color it turned. And the rancid way a pool of it smelled as it sat in the sun decomposing.

“This was a fair amount of blood,” Cal said. “We’re not talking a chicken here.”

Reed agreed. “An adult human has what, five, six liters?”

“Yup. An infant about one.”

“A small dog, maybe? A cat?”

“How long ago, do you think?”

Cal drew his eyebrows together in thought. “Rained three days ago. So, since then.”

“No sign of the carcass?”

“None. Did a search of the area, fifty feet in all directions. But another animal could have dragged it off.”

“Or our nut job could have taken it with him. Or her,” Reed murmured, starting off. “Keep me posted, all right?”

“You got it. Say, Reed?”

He stopped and looked back at Cal.

“Why so interested?”

“A hunch.”

“Thinking our ceremonial friend here also strung up the baby doll.”

Reed gave him a thumbs-up, climbed into his car, then called back, “I have a friend who studies religious cults and rituals. I might have her take a look, see if she knows what we’re dealing with.”

Moments later, on his way back to the Barn, Reed thought again of Alex. Interesting how things worked out. Somebody constructs a crazy altar and begins sacrificing animals just about the time an expert on such things arrives in town.

Reed glanced at his watch and frowned. But contacting Alex about it had to go way down on his list of priorities. At the top of the list was discovering who’d killed Tom Schwann.