Blood Vines

A demand that never came.

Life had changed after that day. His parents had begun to turn old. They fought more, smiled less. Their relationship with their friends-particularly the Sommers-had become strained as well. Life had lost its carelessness, certainly its simplicity. Doors were locked. Alarm systems installed. No more night games of hide-and-seek while their parents drank wine and lost themselves in adult conversations.

As a kid, he hadn’t understood why. As an adult, he did. How did you bounce back from something like that? How did you manage to move on?

Harlan and Patsy Sommer hadn’t. Their marriage had fallen apart. Patsy had left, taking her daughter, Alexandra, leaving behind not only Harlan and his daughter, but their friends and the life they had made together.

The house and winery came into view. Both rambled, modernized and expanded here and there over the years. And like many homes in the area, what made it spectacular was the location-two thousand feet above the valley, nestled among the bay, oak and eucalyptus trees. The view was breathtaking-vineyards sloping down the mountain, each elevation its own microclimate, perfect for producing a uniquely flavored grape.

Heaven on earth.

Reed parked his vehicle, climbed out, then started for the winery. Harlan Sommer was a good guy; Reed had always liked him. He hated that he had to be the one to open this old wound, but the job was his.

A man and woman emerged from the tasting room. “I’m sorry,” the woman called, “the winery’s closed.”

Rachel Sommer, he recognized. Harlan’s daughter. “Rachel, it’s Dan Reed.”

“Da

He kissed her cheek. “You look wonderful.”

She did. Tawny, shoulder-length hair, soft brown eyes, chamois-colored buckskin coat and boots. Five years his senior, he’d had a major crush on her when he was thirteen. To her credit, she had been kind.

“And you’re as big and handsome as ever. Still not hitched?”

“You going to make me an offer?”

“I just might.” She hugged him again, then turned toward her companion. “This is Ron Bell, our assistant winemaker. Ron, Dan and I practically grew up together.”

“Practically?” He shook the other man’s hand. “I think I spent more time here than home.”

“Our parents were best friends,” she said by way of explanation. “Dan’s family owns Red Crest Winery.”

“Good wines,” the other man said. “Your ’05 cab franc was excellent. Didn’t it win the San Francisco Chronicle’s competition?”

“Yes, thank you. A gold. But it wasn’t mine. My father and brothers’.”

Rachel tucked her arm through Dan’s. “Dan left the wine biz behind for the law.”

“You’re an attorney?”

“Cop,” he answered, his lips lifting at the man’s shocked expression.

“A rebel,” Rachel said. “That’s what he is.”

They started for the house. “Dad’s testing one of the ’08 cabs. Come have a taste. He’ll be delighted to see you.”

“I’m not so sure of that. This isn’t a social call. It’s about Dylan.”

She stopped short. She looked as if he had slapped her. “My God, Dan. You can’t be-”

The last was cut off by Harlan Sommer calling out to her, “Rachel, who’s that with you?”

“Little Da

“Reed,” Harlan finished, a smile stretching across his face. He strode toward them. “Good to see you, son.” He reached him and clapped him on the back. “It’s been too damn long.”

Since Reed had last seen him, the man’s hair had gone completely gray. And he looked thi

“Wonderful. Just great. Treven and Clark are here. Come say hello.”

“Dad, wait.” Rachel touched his arm. “Dan’s visit isn’t social.” She lowered her voice. “Something about Dylan.”

Harlan stopped cold. “I see,” he said stiffly, and turned to Ron. “Could you let my brother and nephew know I’ll be a few minutes. They needn’t wait.”

Ron moved his gaze between them, then nodded and headed into the house.

“We’ve uncovered the remains of an infant,” Reed began. “A boy.”

“Where?” the man managed, voice thick.

“In one of your vineyards. The one with the phylloxera infestation.”

Rachel brought a hand to her mouth. “The ancient vines. My God, that’s just down the hill.”

Harlan began to tremble. Rachel put her arm around him.

“We don’t know if it’s Dylan,” Reed added. “The age appears to be right, and the fact the child was buried in a wine crate, in a location so close to-”

“I need to sit down.”

Without waiting for a response, Harlan crossed to a group of benches clustered together near an outdoor brick oven. He sank heavily onto one. Rachel sat beside him and gathered his hand in hers.

Reed took the bench kitty-corner to theirs. “I need to ask you a few questions, Harlan.” The man nodded and Reed continued. “Did Dylan use a pacifier?”

“Yes,” he managed.

“Can you describe it to me?”

He shook his head. “It was blue. That’s all I remember.” He looked at his daughter. “After all this time. Can it be?”

“Do you remember, did he go to bed with it that night?”

“He always went to bed with it,” Rachel answered for her father, voice strong, almost angry-sounding.

“Do you recall, was it missing the morning you discovered Dylan gone?”

“I don’t know. I don’t-” He rubbed his head, voice shaking. “It never crossed my mind.”

“The infant we unearthed was buried with one. It was blue.”

A sound passed the man’s lips, low and feral, like an animal in pain. Rachel put her arms around him, rested her head on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Dad.”

“I always hoped he was alive,” he whispered. “Foolishly. It… helped me, it…” His words trailed off.

“We don’t know for certain it’s Dylan,” Reed said softly. “The remains are surprisingly intact. Disturbingly so.”

“I don’t understand,” Rachel said. “It’s been twenty-five years… I was fifteen years old, for God’s sake! What could be left?”

Reed quickly, and as gently as possible, explained the saponification process. “What’s left is a mummy. I’m sorry.”

Harlan said nothing, though he saw that his throat worked. Reed went on. “Was Dylan still in diapers?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about that night.”

He clasped his hands together. “We went to di

“I was fifteen,” Rachel said, voice shaking. “Old enough to babysit. If anyone was to blame, it should have been me.”

“No,” Harlan said. “I just thank God you were… if anything had happened to you… I don’t think I could have gone on.”

Reed turned to her. “If I remember correctly, Rachel, you and your stepsister slept through whatever happened.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

Harlan stepped in. “The police believed whoever took Dylan knew the children were alone. Knew the layout of the home, which bedroom was Dylan’s. The FBI supported that theory. They were convinced it was a kidnapping for ransom.”

“But no ransom demand came in.”

“No.”

Something had gone wrong. Perhaps. Or they had lost their nerve, killed and buried Dylan, then run.

He didn’t share his train of thoughts with Harlan and his daughter.

Harlan shook his head. “We never thought something like that could happen here… not in Sonoma. We never even locked our doors…”

His words trailed off; Rachel stepped in. “When will we know if it’s Dylan?”

“We’re attempting to pinpoint the child’s age, also to determine how long he’s been buried. In addition, we may be able to retrieve DNA from the remains and positively ID him that way. If that doesn’t pan out, we could turn to a forensic sculptor.”

“Whatever it takes,” Harlan said. “I’ll pay. I have to know if it’s Dylan.”