First Moon Read online

  BANE COUNTY

  —Book 3—

  First Moon

  J R RICE

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by J R Rice

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  for Mom, Hal, & Kado

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map: Regional

  Map: Bane County

  Map: Silver Canyon

  Preface

  Epigraph

  CHAPTER 1: Ridin’ the Storm Out

  CHAPTER 2: First Moon

  CHAPTER 3: Eat the Rich

  CHAPTER 4: Touching Echoes

  CHAPTER 5: The Mark

  CHAPTER 6: Another Season in Hell

  CHAPTER 7: Skinny Genes

  CHAPTER 8: Chuck Walker’s Dog

  CHAPTER 9: Prophett and Loss

  CHAPTER 10: Not So Silent Night

  CHAPTER 11: Baby, It’s Cold Outside

  CHAPTER 12: Feliz Navidad

  CHAPTER 13: The Streets of San Francisco

  CHAPTER 14: The Root of All Evil

  CHAPTER 15: Red Red Wine

  CHAPTER 16: Jumpin’ Jack Flash

  CHAPTER 17: The Virus

  CHAPTER 18: A Bridge Too Far

  CHAPTER 19: A Stitch in Time

  CHAPTER 20: Night Moves

  CHAPTER 21: Just What the Doctor Ordered

  CHAPTER 22: Black Ice

  Epilogue: Hungry Moon

  Author’s Note

  PREFACE

  The Saga Continues . . .

  Thank you for choosing Bane County: First Moon.

  First Moon is the third book in the Bane County Series and is a continuation of our character’s coming-of-age journey into darkness. Book Three picks up—the following morning—where Book Two left off, and while it could be read as a stand-alone novel, I highly recommend starting at the beginning of our story with Book One at the link below:

  Bane County: Forgotten Moon

  Starting with the first book of the series will greatly enhance your overall enjoyment of the story; and that, after all, is my primary goal as an author. Book Three contains numerous tie-ins and additions, and a great many subtleties that would go completely unnoticed by the reader if he or she passed over the first two books of the series.

  All that being said, I would like to offer prospective readers—and/or their parents—the same forewarning as I did with my previous books. While the story contains no scenes of a sexual nature, a fair amount of coarse language and four-letter expletives are used—although not much more than you would find in your average PG-13 rated movie.

  On the other hand, the tragic and gruesome demise of both man and beast, and the pain and emotional turmoil that follows, is somewhat prevalent throughout the story; and in a few cases, the graphic descriptions can be quite explicit.

  In short, the story is one of suspense and mystery, of discovery and terror, and of the horrifying realization that not all things that go bump in the night are imaginary.

  So, having been forewarned, and after choosing to continue, please accept my sincerest, heartfelt salutations.

  Welcome back, to Bane County.

  J R RICE

  And the hand of God was upon me.

  He brought me out by the Spirit

  and set me down in the midst of a broad valley;

  and the valley was full of bones.

  —THE PROPHET EZEKIEL, Circa 570 B.C.

  The cold earth slept below;

  Above the cold sky shone;

  And all around,

  With a chilling sound,

  From caves of ice and fields of snow,

  The breath of night like death did flow;

  Beneath the sinking moon.

  — PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, 1815

  Man is the only animal that can remain on friendly terms

  with the victims he intends to eat, until he eats them.

  —SAMUEL BULTLER, 1912

  CHAPTER 1

  Ridin’ the Storm Out

  THE OLD STONE RUINS OF THE WOLF HOUSE stood cold and silent, just as they had for nearly one hundred years. Located in Sonoma County, California, famed author—and wolf lover—Jack London began construction of his dream home in 1911, only to have it destroyed by fire two years later, just weeks before its scheduled completion. The true cause of the fire remains a point of contention to this day.

  That same year, 1913, Jack London’s novel “The Valley of the Moon” was published. The story takes place in the lush grape-growing region of the Sonoma Valley, and the inspiration for the novel’s title was derived from a Native American translation of that area.

  According to the Coast Miwok and Pomo tribes who lived in the region, Sonoma Valley translated as “Valley of the Moon.” It was said that Sonoma County was the land where the moon nestled. Of course, there were other legends about the moon and that region as well—older, darker legends.

  On this particular morning, Wednesday, December 22, 2010, the usually dark and foreboding stone walls and towers of the Wolf House were bright and glowing with a dusting of snow and ice; a very rare occurrence in Sonoma County.

  One of the strongest El Niño weather patterns on record had recently been reported by NOAA, and last night, at about 8:00 p.m., the first in a series of violent winter storms slammed into the northwest coastline from Washington State to Northern California with devastating effects.

  Gale-force winds and driving rain along the Sonoma Coast had wreaked havoc across the countryside. Farther inland, the entire county had been buffeted by pea-sized hail, ice, sleet, and snow. Localized flooding had damaged numerous small bridges and low-lying roads. Trees had been uprooted and utility lines were down; half the county had power outages. Traffic accidents and stranded motorists were rampant. The storm had been a logistical nightmare for law enforcement and every officer had worked a double shift.

  Detective Sergeant Travis Creed with the Sonoma County Sheriff’s Office parked his car and shuffled wearily up the icy walkway to his townhome. He was exhausted. It was just after 6:00 a.m. and dawn was slowly approaching. He had been working for nearly twenty-four hours, half of which he had spent on traffic duty—he hated traffic duty.

  Just as Travis reached the front porch step, his foot slipped on a patch of ice. “Son of a—” He quickly scrabbled to catch himself, gripping the porch railing. “Damn it—I hate winter.”

  Travis had grown up on a farm near the South Platte River in Ogallala, Nebraska; and he was no stranger to hard winters. But this was Northern California for Chrissake; what the hell was all this snow and ice doing here? He made his way inside and slipped off his boots.

  Travis Creed had been a lawman for most of his adult life. At the age of twenty, he had joined the Ogallala Police Department. It was a small force, only consisting of ten officers, but it gave him the needed experience he desired. Five years later, he accepted a position as a deputy sheriff with the Sonoma County Sheriff’s Office and moved to Santa Rosa, California. Now at forty-one years of age, he had been with the sheriff’s office for sixteen years.

  Four years prior, Travis had been promoted to Detective Sergeant, a
nd was placed in charge of the VCI, the Violent Crimes Investigation Unit; which was another reason he hated traffic duty so much. He was a detective, damn it, not a meter maid. He had lost count of the number of fender-benders he had dealt with last night. This winter storm was the worst he could remember.

  Out of habit, he reached for the light switch on the wall. The power was still out in this area of Santa Rosa. He switched on his Maglite, shining its bright beam around the room, and then headed for his bedroom.

  Travis laid his pistol on the nightstand. It was a SIG Sauer P226 .40 S&W. He preferred the .40 caliber to a 9mm. It had more stopping power than a nine, without the hard recoil of a .45 ACP. In years past, he had kept his handgun in a lockbox, but there was no longer any need. Travis Creed lived alone.

  He had been divorced for nearly two years now and his fourteen-year-old son, David, lived with his mother in San Francisco. He did his best to spend time with his son every other weekend.

  Peeling off his clothes, Travis turned off his cell phone, unplugged his landline, and then fell face-first into his bed. He was fast asleep before the old spring mattress stopped bouncing.

  A little before 8:00 a.m., a loud pounding jolted him awake. “What the hell?” Staggering to his front door, he looked through the peephole. All he could see was a man’s chest. “Luther,” Travis grumbled, and then opened the door.

  A large black man with a knowing smile looked down at him; he was a half-foot taller than Travis. “You look like warmed-over shit,” Luther said, in his deep, basso voice.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “You’re not answering your phones.”

  “That’s ’cause I’m trying to get some damn sleep,” Travis snapped.

  Luther grinned. He and Travis had been best friends for nearly a decade. “The lieutenant told me to come get you. We caught a body.”

  Travis’s face sobered. “Homicide?” he inquired, running a hand through his sandy blond hair. He needed a haircut.

  Luther nodded.

  “Where?”

  “Over on the coast, south of Timber Cove.”

  “What? It’ll take us over an hour to drive out there in this crappy weather.”

  Luther smiled. “We’re not driving.”

  Travis looked puzzled for a moment, and then it dawned on him. “Oh no—no way! I’m not getting on that damn helicopter. The lieutenant knows I don’t like to fly.”

  Luther chuckled loudly. “You’ll be fine. Now get dressed, we gotta go.” He turned and headed back to his car.

  “I’m not flying!” Travis shouted after him.

  Luther spoke without looking back. “Hurry up, your coffee’s getting cold.”

  Deputy Sheriff Luther Nash was a mountain of a man: six-foot-seven and two hundred eighty-five pounds; his hands were the size of a catcher’s mitt. He had played college football for the Oregon Ducks in his younger years, a defensive end who was on his way to the NFL before a knee injury in his third year ended his pro career before it had started. He had gone on to get his BA in Sociology and become fluent in Spanish. Luther had been with the Sonoma County Sheriff’s Office for nine years now and was one of Travis Creed’s best friends.

  As soon as Travis entered the car, Luther thrust a cup of coffee into his hand, and then pulled the cruiser away from the curb. “Quad-shot venti Americano.”

  “God bless you,” Travis sighed. He took a long sip, and then added, “Okay, tell me what’s so special about this homicide that I have to get on a damn chopper.”

  “Winston Prophett,” Luther stated evenly.

  “Winston Prophett?” Travis questioned. He pondered the name for a moment. “Prophett? Why do I know that name?”

  “Because it’s been in the newspaper for the past two months—Susan Prophett?”

  Travis snapped his fingers. “That’s right! She’s that professor down at Stanford who murdered one of her students. She just got convicted a couple of days ago—twenty-years-to-life. So . . . who’s this Winston guy?”

  “Her father.”

  “No shit?” Travis nodded and took a sip of coffee. “Doesn’t that seem a little strange to you? His daughter gets convicted and two days later somebody kills him.”

  “What are you thinking?” asked Luther.

  “Maybe the family of the murdered student didn’t think twenty-years-to-life was good enough. Maybe they were looking to balance the scales.”

  Luther nodded. “Certainly worth looking at.”

  Travis took another sip of coffee. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

  “What’s that?”

  “What’s so special about this homicide that I have to get on a chopper?”

  Luther sped around a corner, tires slipping on the icy road. He looked at Travis and smiled. “Oh, you’re gonna love this one,” he insisted. “So about 6:00 a.m. this morning, Winston Prophett’s housekeeper arrives and finds her boss on the floor in a pool of blood. She’s an elderly Hispanic lady, might be an illegal, I’m not sure; anyway, she freaks out—understandably—but instead of calling 911, she calls her son.” Luther paused for effect. “Guess where he works?”

  Travis shook his head and shrugged.

  “The Press Democrat.”

  “The newspaper!” Travis snapped. “He’s a reporter?”

  “No, he works in the distribution department, but all of his friends are reporters.”

  “Jesus. So the press knew about this before we did?”

  “Oh, it gets worse,” Luther assured. “So this reporter from the Press Democrat recognizes Winston Prophett’s name, knows he’s a multi-millionaire and a big player in county politics. So, he calls the Sonoma County Board of Supervisors and—”

  “Oh shit—you have got to be kidding me,” Travis broke in. His face twisted with disbelief and worry. The Sonoma County Board of Supervisors were the upper echelon of county politics. The sheriff’s office worked for them.

  Luther continued. “Yeah, apparently this reporter had the chairman of the board’s private number.”

  “Jesus H. Christ!” Travis exclaimed.

  “Needless to say,” Luther went on, “when the sheriff awoke to a call from the chairman this morning at 6:30 a.m.—wanting answers—all hell broke loose.”

  Travis rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I need an aspirin.”

  “The lieutenant said this is the only case you and I are working until it’s closed—and he wants it cleared, fast.”

  “Great,” Travis moaned sarcastically. “No problem. Do we have anyone on scene yet?”

  “Yeah, Happ’s had the scene locked down for over an hour.” Martin Happ was a deputy sheriff who lived over on the coast and patrolled that area of the county.

  “What about the crime scene guys?” Travis inquired.

  “CSI and the Coroner Unit are already en route,” said Luther. “They left about an hour ago, so they’ll probably beat us there.” He pulled his cruiser off of Redwood Highway and turned onto Airport Boulevard.

  “I can’t believe you’re making me fly,” Travis grumbled to himself.

  Luther tried not to smile. He had never understood his friend’s fear of flying. Travis was a six-foot cowboy from Nebraska who was tough as nails and had nerves of steel. However, when you put him in an aircraft he started sweating bullets.

  When they arrived at the Sonoma County Airport, the chopper was already on the pad with the engine running. The acrid smell of jet fuel filled the crisp morning air. After they parked the cruiser, the co-pilot motioned them forward. Hunching low, they bowed their heads and trotted through the roar of beating winds toward the helicopter.

  After climbing aboard and strapping in, they donned their headsets and were greeted by the TFO, the tactical flight officer, Deputy Sheriff Heather Wilcox. “Good morning, gentleman.”

  “Morning, ma’am,” Luther said cordially.

  Travis remained silent.

  Luther nudged Travis’s leg. “Women make t
he best pilots.” He saw a faint smile growing on Heather’s lips; he knew she could hear him over the headset. “My friend’s a little nervous about flying,” he told her.

  “Don’t worry,” Heather assured, “. . . I’ll be gentle.” Even though her voice sounded tinny over the headset, she still managed a deep sultry tone. However, it did little to assuage Travis’s fear.

  The Bell 407 Helicopter lifted off quickly and Travis gripped the edge of his seat. His normally tanned countenance looked flour-white. After a few deep cleansing breaths, he seemed to calm slightly.

  Heather’s voice came over the headsets. “Our ETA’s about fifteen minutes, gentlemen.”

  “Copy that, ma’am,” said Luther. He turned to Travis. “Beats the hell out of driving on icy roads, right?”

  Travis nodded stiffly. He hadn’t said a single word since boarding the aircraft. He just stared straight ahead at the seat in front of him.

  When the helicopter reached the ocean, it banked north, heading up the coastline toward Winston Prophett’s expansive coastal estate. They circled once around the large two-story manor, and then set down in an open area near the edge of a rugged, windswept bluff. Travis was the first to alight; head bowed, he trotted away quickly from the aircraft. After he cleared the rotor wash, he turned to wave a thank you to the pilot.

  Heather offered a broad smile, sketched a perfunctory salute, and then lifted off, heading back to the county airport. After the roar and winds of the chopper had faded, they found themselves surrounded by a tomb-like hush. The sea winds had calmed, and the rains had passed. The temperature outside was well above freezing. It was actually quite nice.

  Together Luther and Travis made their way toward the front of the house. “Looks like the storm beat the hell out of this place last night,” Travis commented. There were broken tree limbs and debris scattered everywhere, and the hedges were festooned with lawn furniture.

  Luther nodded, looking around. “Yeah, looks like they got slammed pretty hard.” He saw Martin Happ standing at the front door of the house and waved to him. “Hey, Happ.”