I couldn’t read Cheney’s expression. He looked serious but there was a suggestion of humor in his eyes. Diana Alvarez was close on his heels, eager for any news he intended to pass along.

When he reached me, he said, “Hold out your hand. I have a present for you.”

I held out my hand and he dropped an object in my palm. I registered a mud-caked plastic disk attached to a length of dirty blue leather. “What’s this?”

“What’s it look like? A dog tag. That’s what the two guys were burying-the family pet. Woof woof…”

He smiled and moved on.

Walker McNally drove his black Mercedes through the entrance to Horton Ravine as he did every day on his way home from work. Occasionally he elected to use the back entrance, but he didn’t much care for the associations. It was Thursday afternoon. Carolyn and the kids had left that morning for San Francisco, where they’d spend a long weekend with her mother, returning Monday afternoon. Fletcher, age four, and Linnie, age two, were still in preschool, so whisking them off for five days with Nana wasn’t an issue. Though he’d miss them, he looked forward to the empty house, keenly aware that he was on his own and could do as he pleased.

He and Carolyn had moved back to California ten years earlier, when he’d been hired as VP of New Client Relations at Montebello Bank and Trust. He’d begun his financial career in the trust department at Chase Manhattan Bank in New York City and later joined Wells Fargo as a wealth-planning specialist. The job opening in Santa Teresa had been a blessing, since Walker had grown up in town, graduating from UCST in 1971.

He was a good-looking man, personable, charming, and articulate. A good part of his day he was on the phone, setting up meetings and lunch dates, arranging drinks and dinner with prospective clients whose business he was working to gain. He served on the boards of two nonprofit organizations and he was also involved in a number of planned-giving and development committees. He’d brought a goodly number of clients to the bank during his tenure, and he was rewarded accordingly.

Carolyn was the one who first raised the issue of what she referred to as his “drinking problem.” She’d apparently been monitoring his intake, counting the number of beer, wine, and liquor bottles that went into the trash. He wasn’t sure how long this had been going on, but she’d finally put her foot down. He was of Scots descent, fair-haired, blue-eyed, with a complexion that was ruddy by nature. Alcohol had added a tinge of pink to his cheeks and a faint puffiness to his face. He knew he’d packed on a few pounds the last couple of years. At thirty-eight, he was on the high side of the suggested boundaries for his height and weight. He’d quit smoking, and that had added the obligatory fifteen pounds. While he intended to work out, there wasn’t much opportunity during the week. To his way of thinking, Carolyn’s concerns were misplaced. Even when he’d belted down a few, he wasn’t boisterous. His speech wasn’t slurred. He was never goofy, or maudlin, or sloppy, or mean-spirited. Drunk, he looked and behaved exactly as he did when he was sober-at least according to his perceptions. Nonetheless, he’d promised her he’d rein himself in.

She’d urged him to join AA, but he’d balked at that. He didn’t need outside help to get his drinking under control. He had absolutely no intention of standing up at a public meeting, with god knows who present, confessing his sins, and looking for approbation. He’d always been a man who held his liquor well, and his heft actually allowed him to metabolize alcohol more efficiently than many guys his age. He had to admit that after a couple of hours at the club, if he were stopped by the CHP, he could probably pass a field sobriety test, but he’d blow a blood-alcohol level that would put him in jail.

Happily for him he’d managed to restrict his drinking the past eight months. He’d have a beer or two after working in the yard, or he’d sip the occasional glass of Champagne, celebrating an occasion such as a birthday or an anniversary. He made sure Carolyn knew and approved of these exceptions because it underscored his stance of moderation. She’d never believe it if he claimed he’d quit altogether. She knew him better than that.

Now at business lunches and dinners he bypassed hard liquor in favor of white wine, which scarcely registered on his internal alcohol meter. Going dry was really no big deal. He made do with iced tea, or soda water with lime. He slept better and he had more energy, but he noticed he was often bored. Friends and cohorts, who’d seemed so amusing when he drank, began to get on his nerves. He wasn’t as smooth or relaxed as he’d been in the past and he was aware that certain of his friends now shied away from him. And why would they not? He thought teetotalers were a tiresome bunch and he was sorry he’d been thrust into their ranks. It was also true that the temptation to drink was with him every minute of every day, like a low-grade headache he didn’t know how to shake.

With Carolyn gone, he tooled along Via Juliana, actively fantasizing about the highball he’d make for himself when he got home. He planned to sit on the back patio, which Carolyn had recently refurbished with faux wicker furniture, upholstered in a fabric impervious to the elements. Rain and sun could beat down on the cushions without ill effect. The view from the back terrace was still amazing to him, stretching across the hills and treetops all the way to the ocean. The air would be still, smelling of sage and bay laurel. He’d take his time, savoring a predinner cocktail. Then he’d have a pizza delivered and eat in front of the television set, maybe catch a golf match or a guy flick of the sort Carolyn would find tedious. He might allow himself a wee nightcap, but he’d wait and see what his mood was when the time came. He didn’t feel the same compulsion to drink as he had in the past. This was purely for the pleasure of it.

On his way home from the office, he’d stopped at the liquor depot and picked up a pint of Maker’s Mark, a quart of vodka, and a six-pack of Bass Ale, which he intended to parcel out to himself over the four nights his family would be gone. All he had to do then was dispose of the empties before Carolyn got home. Would she ever know? He thought not. He’d keep his drinking simple-whiskey with a water back, vodka over ice-and remove any telltale evidence first thing Monday morning. No mixers in the liquor cabinet, no bottle caps in the trash, no cut limes in the fridge, and no conspicuous rings on the glass-topped table, where he’d be sitting while the sun went down.

Ahead of him at the curve, cars had slowed and he wondered if there’d been an accident. Maybe someone had hit a deer. He hoped to god it wasn’t a kid on a bike. Fletcher had just mastered his two-wheeler. Linnie was still riding a tricycle, and then only in the park. He wasn’t sure he’d ever permit them to take their bikes on a public road. There wasn’t much vehicular traffic through Horton Ravine, but at the end of the workday, when people headed for home, they often drove faster than the posted limit.

As he got closer, he spotted two cop cars and a mobile evidence van parked on the berm, which suggested an event of a more serious sort. He slowed. There was a smattering of people standing by the road, looking idle and indecisive. The crowd was modest, and it was clear they didn’t quite know what to do with themselves. On impulse, he pulled onto the gravel strip where a number of other cars were parked. He killed the engine and got out. He still had no clue what was going on. An attractive redhead, in slacks and a sweater, stood leaning against the fence. She turned to look at him and gave him a little finger wave. Avis Jent. He recognized her from the country club, though she’d dropped from sight after her divorce.