Robby Vandenard, the age in the eyes of the man who had taken two lives, and then his own, starting at the age of eleven.
Monks said, “I don’t mink he was ever a kid.”
Monks cruised slowly up Lokoya Road, in the mountains between Napa and Sonoma, following the crude map Darla Lutey had drawn to the old Vandenard estate. It was at the road’s end, well removed from neighbors. The black iron fence was thickly overgrown with brush, the gate locked with a chain. There was just enough space for him to slip through.
He walked up a worn asphalt lane, with unkempt tree limbs closing off the sky overhead and crowding the edges. He had gone a good quarter of a mile before the vista opened up again. Steep hills rose on both sides, cresting into a ridge of cliffs ahead. The lower slopes were lush with neglected vineyards. There was a scattering of buildings: a stone caretaker’s cottage, and some sheds, all looking disused.
And a three-story Victorian mansion that would have been a picture of elegance except for peeling paint and boarded windows.
A pair of heavy plank doors had been cut into the base of the cliffs. Monks walked to them. They were locked with a rusted iron hasp that looked hand-forged. Behind them would be the wine cellar, where the Vandenards in years past had laid in their private supply, grown and bottled on the estate by the old Italian hands.
Where Katherine Vandenard, aged fourteen, had been alone one afternoon in the summer of 1971. Until someone came in after her with a grape-picker’s knife.
Fog lay close to the ground, clinging to the neglected vines like crêpe. The sky was a streaked and moving tapestry of gray. The place was on the way to Mendocino, and Monks had decided to stop, in the vague hope of finding someone who might have more light to shed on whatever had happened between Robby Vandenard and Francis Jephson. Or perhaps, really, to pay respects to the girl whose death was the germinal event in all this.
He turned to go and stopped. A man was walking toward him from the caretaker’s house. Now Monks could see smoke from the chimney, barely visible against the mist.
Monks said, “I realize I’m trespassing. I apologize.”
“You want to show me some ID?” He was lean,bearded, wearing the uniform of men of his type: jeans, work boots, and baseball cap pulled low. At a guess, he was about Monks’s age, beard graying, face heavily weathered, hard-eyed, a man life had not been kind to. He spoke with a twang that brought to mind Larrabee’s words about Merle Lutey:
That’s got Okie written all over it.
Monks handed over his driver’s license. “Are you the owner?”
The caretaker examined the license.
“Nope,” he said, handing it back. “Mind telling me what you’re doing here?”
“I’ve got some business involving the Vandenard family. I thought there might be somebody around who knew them.”
“Place is owned by an investment group down in the city. I’m just here till they get their price. Don’t know who had it before that.”
“Sorry to disturb you.”
“No problem. Truth to tell, it gets kind of lonesome.”
“I could see that,” Monks said. “Well. I’ll be going.”
“What kind of doctor?”
Monks turned back, fearing that he might become trapped in a conversation about this hermit’s ailments.
“Emergency,” he said.
“Must take good nerves.”
“They’re not as good as they used to be.”
The caretaker’s chin lifted slightly, a gesturethat seemed to mean he was satisfied.
Back in the Bronco, Monks consulted a map of the area. The town of Calistoga was roughly twenty miles north. It seemed quite a coincidence that Francis Jephson had been hiking in this area, and bitten by a rattlesnake, a few weeks after Katherine Vandenard’s death.
Unless he had really been
here,
on the Vandenards’ estate, and the location of the snakebite incident had been falsified in order to hush up the reason: to evaluate Robby.
Monks drove back down
Monks said, “I don’t mink he was ever a kid.”
Monks cruised slowly up Lokoya Road, in the mountains between Napa and Sonoma, following the crude map Darla Lutey had drawn to the old Vandenard estate. It was at the road’s end, well removed from neighbors. The black iron fence was thickly overgrown with brush, the gate locked with a chain. There was just enough space for him to slip through.
He walked up a worn asphalt lane, with unkempt tree limbs closing off the sky overhead and crowding the edges. He had gone a good quarter of a mile before the vista opened up again. Steep hills rose on both sides, cresting into a ridge of cliffs ahead. The lower slopes were lush with neglected vineyards. There was a scattering of buildings: a stone caretaker’s cottage, and some sheds, all looking disused.
And a three-story Victorian mansion that would have been a picture of elegance except for peeling paint and boarded windows.
A pair of heavy plank doors had been cut into the base of the cliffs. Monks walked to them. They were locked with a rusted iron hasp that looked hand-forged. Behind them would be the wine cellar, where the Vandenards in years past had laid in their private supply, grown and bottled on the estate by the old Italian hands.
Where Katherine Vandenard, aged fourteen, had been alone one afternoon in the summer of 1971. Until someone came in after her with a grape-picker’s knife.
Fog lay close to the ground, clinging to the neglected vines like crêpe. The sky was a streaked and moving tapestry of gray. The place was on the way to Mendocino, and Monks had decided to stop, in the vague hope of finding someone who might have more light to shed on whatever had happened between Robby Vandenard and Francis Jephson. Or perhaps, really, to pay respects to the girl whose death was the germinal event in all this.
He turned to go and stopped. A man was walking toward him from the caretaker’s house. Now Monks could see smoke from the chimney, barely visible against the mist.
Monks said, “I realize I’m trespassing. I apologize.”
“You want to show me some ID?” He was lean,bearded, wearing the uniform of men of his type: jeans, work boots, and baseball cap pulled low. At a guess, he was about Monks’s age, beard graying, face heavily weathered, hard-eyed, a man life had not been kind to. He spoke with a twang that brought to mind Larrabee’s words about Merle Lutey:
That’s got Okie written all over it.
Monks handed over his driver’s license. “Are you the owner?”
The caretaker examined the license.
“Nope,” he said, handing it back. “Mind telling me what you’re doing here?”
“I’ve got some business involving the Vandenard family. I thought there might be somebody around who knew them.”
“Place is owned by an investment group down in the city. I’m just here till they get their price. Don’t know who had it before that.”
“Sorry to disturb you.”
“No problem. Truth to tell, it gets kind of lonesome.”
“I could see that,” Monks said. “Well. I’ll be going.”
“What kind of doctor?”
Monks turned back, fearing that he might become trapped in a conversation about this hermit’s ailments.
“Emergency,” he said.
“Must take good nerves.”
“They’re not as good as they used to be.”
The caretaker’s chin lifted slightly, a gesturethat seemed to mean he was satisfied.
Back in the Bronco, Monks consulted a map of the area. The town of Calistoga was roughly twenty miles north. It seemed quite a coincidence that Francis Jephson had been hiking in this area, and bitten by a rattlesnake, a few weeks after Katherine Vandenard’s death.
Unless he had really been
here,
on the Vandenards’ estate, and the location of the snakebite incident had been falsified in order to hush up the reason: to evaluate Robby.
Monks drove back down
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