River Bones

Titles by Mary Deal

Fiction

The Ka, a paranormal Egyptian suspense

River Bones, the original Sara Mason Mystery

The Howling Cliffs, 1st sequel to River Bones

Legacy of the Tropics, adventure/suspense

Down to The Needle, a thriller

Collections

Off Center in the Attic – Over the Top Stories

Nonfiction

Write It Right – Tips for Authors – The Big Book

Hypno-Scripts: Life-Changing Techniques Using Self-Hypnosis and Meditation

For Charley Ramirez

Acknowledgements

Many thanks to lifelong Delta friends…

Jim and Glenda Faye Emerson, Courtland, CA

Donna and Bob Nunes, Rio Vista, CA

…who offered valuable insights as we reminisced about our days along the River.

Author photo by Faces Studio and Salon, Honolulu, Hawaii

Chapter 1

Blood-red letters filled the top of the news page on the monitor screen…

Serial Killer Victim Identified

Each time Sara Mason went online to read and learn about the Sacramento River Delta, the hometown area she never had a chance to know, her homepage featured headlines about the elusive psychopath. She read the Internet posts with concern and remembered the fear caused by the Zodiac Killer of the 1960s and 1970s. Like with the Zodiac, authorities had no direct clues as to who the killer might be.

Reading the updates always set her nerves on edge. Just after moving into her home she thought she had heard someone walking around her property late at night but could never find a trace of anyone being there. Was she imagining things?

The news went on to disclose…

The graves of two unidentified skeletons did not contain an ID or personal belongings, as was the case with previous burial sites found. Cat bones buried in the graves were the tie-in with previous victims, all found with bones of a small animal.

A cat, Sara said out loud. Then an intrusive old image came to mind: A pink dress and a small furry bunny.

Cold case detectives identified one of the two sets of remains as that of Paula Rowe, a convenience store night clerk from Sacramento. She had been missing twelve years.

Previous reports indicated the victims were placed in the ground with the belongings they had at the time. The killer dug the graves in remote areas near rivers and streams where the ground was soft and damp, promoting decay.

A police profiler indicated the perpetrator presumably lived within the crescent-shaped area where the graves were placed. Remains were found beyond Interstate 80 to the west, Roseville to the north, and east of Rancho Cordova along the American River. Within the crescent extends the entire Sacramento metropolitan area and suburb towns. Most of the victims had been missing for years, some for decades. Considering the graves discovered in recent times did not contain fresh skeletons, it is assumed the killer either left the area or simply quit killing, which law enforcement believe to be unlikely. Now and then, a new name is added to the growing list of missing people, the killer still unknown.

One last item in the Internet article disclosed…

Since victims are both male and female, and of differing races, it is difficult to determine a possible motive, except that authorities have an elusive madman on their hands.

If she was not careful, Sara's imagination could get out of hand. The break-ins were increasing in the barrio where she lived in Puerto Rico for the last three decades. This left her looking over her shoulder and the need to find a safe place to live life grew heavier. Some communities on the island were simply too dangerous, and her neighborhood had become one of them. She needed a place where she felt secure, but never guessed she would find herself clear across the country.

Once deciding to return to live in her hometown area, her first major decision was to look for a house along the river, but not confined to Rio Vista in Solano County where she attended high school. Many people moved into the Delta and built multimillion-dollar mansions along the river. That was not for her.

She slipped into town before Christmas a few months earlier and bought an older house, a present to herself. Wanting to own a Victorian mansion was a lifelong dream that never faded. She found one such place, and to the astonishment of the real estate broker, immediately signed the sales agreement for the full asking price. Upon approval of her offer, she paid cash by way of a wire transfer.

After signing the documents, she overheard the hotshot Sacramento real estate broker boast to someone in another office, Some wealthy middle-aged blonde woman—a real looker outa' Puerto Rico—just bought that damnable eyesore down along the river. Sara wasn't offended and smiled secretly. She knew she held her age well and knew exactly how she would refurbish the old mansion.

Next, Sara contacted her alma mater, Rio Vista High School, about class reunions. Through high school records, she located Daphine Whelan, her best friend back then. If anyone else remembered her, it was probably as a quiet, bashful girl with stringy blond hair.

You know what they say about that house, Daphine had warned over the phone.

The real estate agent filled me in, Sara said. I don't believe most of it.

Daphine's mood was upbeat, knowing her childhood friend was back in town. But her conversations about the house was somber. Just be careful, okay? That maniac is still on the loose, and the previous owner of your house is still missing.

Most of the sketchy information about the estate seemed mixed with rumors and gossip. "Daph, the real estate agent filled me in on some of the history of that house. He said that Orson and Esmerelda Talbot were the second owners. They named it Talbot House. The original owners built the house in 1928. Since it was only a copy of an original Victorian home, it was unable to be registered with any historical society. The Talbots wished to leave congested city life in the San Francisco Bay Area. Being that 1928 was the year Orson Talbot was born, they interpreted it as an omen to buy. Soon afterward, Mr. Talbot went missing."

Yes, I've heard the history of that dilapidated Victorian.

Daph, Sara remembered saying. Ramshackle or not, I've got my dream house, and nothing will keep me away. Just wait till you see what I do with it.

Daphine's silence through the phone seemed more like a warning.

Though her hands remained at the keyboard, Sara found herself staring at her little sister's photos hanging on the wall covered with old blue floral wallpaper. Little Starla was long dead, but Sara always found a measure of peace just seeing her sister's face. Many times, Sara had placed photos of her youth next to Starla's pictures. Had they been born closer together in years, they could have passed for twins.

I miss your laughter, Sara said to the close-up of Starla's face. Would Starla's sunny blond hair have stayed that way, as hers had? Would Starla have had the same slender figure, been tall, and offered a chance to do some modeling, as she had? Would the sparkle in her large baby blue eyes have remained too? Or would it have diminished once Starla understood about their parents?

Later, after breaking away from the computer and climbing into bed, Sara became consumed with thoughts of remains being found. The need for caution instilled in her in Puerto Rico had yet to wear off and take its place in distant memory. But for the time being, her sense of self-preservation remained on high alert. The roads were greatly improved since she had lived in the area. The entire Sacramento and Delta regions could be covered by auto in little time. If the perpetrator left Sacramento, he could have gone anywhere. She rolled over and tried to clear her mind and visualize the old house remodeled and decorated. The wind gusted, and the back part of the house creaked. It was a sound with which she had become familiar.

She snuggled down and gave thanks for flannel pajamas, something unnecessary in the Caribbean. Just as she drifted off, she was startled by noises outside. Footsteps. She had heard them before. More like boot steps. On the sidewalk on the north side. Passing right outside her bedroom window!

Dreaming, she said, half asleep. Must be dreaming.

She couldn't just lie there if someone was trying to get in. She had been told that homeless people and vandals, at times, got inside. Whoever was out there needed to know the house was now occupied. She threw back the covers and was about to leave her bedroom when she remembered that all the windows were no longer boarded up. With the old heating system not yet working, little to no condensation accumulated on the windowpanes. Nothing to hide anyone inside. If that was not a homeless person seeking shelter—her mind flashed on the serial killer whose whereabouts were unknown—she wasn't about to throw on the lights and expose herself as a captive fish in a goldfish bowl.

Should have left the windows boarded, she said, whispering to herself. Her bedroom and bath were the only rooms where temporary curtains hung. She listened again but heard nothing else. She dropped to the floor and crept toward the sitting room, watching the windows to see if any shadows moved outside. She felt paranoid and wondered if this was what her neighbors endured in Puerto Rico when intruders broke into their homes. Paranoid or not, it was best to be safe. She watched the windows again.

Nothing moved.

She crept to the dining room doorway, studied the windows, and saw nothing. Passing the fireplace, she made it into the pantry where she waited and listened just off the kitchen.

She heard nothing.

A butcher knife lay in the dish rack where she had left it to dry. She crept low to retrieve it.

More noises… toward the front of the house at the opposite end.

She grabbed the knife, crept back into the pantry, and found a hammer where she had left it when removing old shelving.

If someone were walking around the grounds, she might be able to see them from an upstairs window. She began to climb the dark back staircase between the kitchen and dining room that was once used as the servant's access to the rest of the house. One stair squeaked, and the sound echoed off the walls of the enclosed stairwell.

Sara's heart beat wildly. She held her breath.

Upstairs, she moved quietly from room to room, peeping outside without getting too close to each window. She saw nothing but trees bending against the night sky and heard no sounds other than the wind rushing around the corners and gables of the house.

She felt isolated, sleeping alone in a monstrous four-level, forty-five hundred square foot house, where sounds reverberated off the walls of the empty rooms. Finally, she sat down again on her bed and made sure her cell phone was still on the nightstand. But what good would it do her if she was caught in trouble upstairs and her cell phone was downstairs? She clutched the phone and argued with herself about calling 911. The noises could simply be her imagination. Still, someone needed to know what was happening.

She hesitated, then punched the code, and waited till someone answered. Buck, it's me, Sara.

A yawn came through the phone. It's after midnight, Sara. This old man doesn't stay up working late like you do.

She had stayed briefly with friends Buck and Linette till escrow closed. She sighed. Buck, I just read more about that psychopath, and now I can't get to sleep. I thought if you guys were still awake, I'd come over and—

Don't you dare go outside in the middle of the night!

So, you think that psychopath could be in this area?

I just want you to be safe. Learn to stay indoors at night when you're alone.

I-I guess I'm over-reacting.

You have a weapon? he asked, through another yawn.

Yeah, she said, eyeing the knife and hammer lying beside her on the bed. 'I'll be okay."

Finally, back in bed, the silence was deafening. How could she even think about letting someone scare her out of her house? To help her relax, as she often did, she thought of innocent little Starla, who loved to sing. Decades earlier, Starla had heard the obscure theme song from the 1960 movie, Circus of Horrors, on the radio and felt rapport because of her name. Sara imagined hearing Starla's sweet voice singing, …when you feel there is no one to guide you… look for a star.

Sara shivered, and it wasn't from the old house having no heat. I hope I can sleep tonight, she said softly. She sighed and glanced at the knife and hammer lying on the nightstand, strategically placed for a quick grab.

Chapter 2

Worrying about the whereabouts of the serial killer caused Sara to lie awake too long. She rose late the next morning, running behind schedule, but finally arriving at her last stop of the day.

Winter debris littered the graves. Sara gathered a fistful of small branches and faded leaves, clutching them so tight the twigs cracked in her hands. She pitched them vengefully against the larger marker.

Three white marble headstones stood side by side in the older, forlorn section of the Elk Grove Cemetery south of Sacramento, unchanged and visible, like her memories. She stared at the inscription on the double-sized stone that said:

MASON

Quincy Everett and Petra Lou.

Both born the same year and died together. Two of a kind. She grimaced. I often wonder if you're in heaven… or hell. She stooped down and touched the ground in front of a smaller marker inscribed:

Starla Gay Mason.

Hi, Sis, she said. I'm here. It's payback time. She remembered her sister lying in her coffin, her body whole, but ghastly pale. She always thought of her that way. Whole and sleeping, in her only dress, pink with white bows. At the last minute, Sara had stuffed Starla's favorite toy, a fluffy white rabbit, under her sister's arm.

Sara positioned the arrangement of pink tulips in the built-in vase beside the headstone and waited till the tightness in her throat eased. After moving to Puerto Rico following the deaths of her parents and sister, she imagined her own ashes eventually being strewn in the crystal clear water of the Caribbean Sea. Having returned to her hometown, that plan may change. She always had difficulty thinking of Starla lying in the cold ground. Sara couldn't imagine herself lying beneath the headstone beside Starla, pre-marked for her:

Sara May Mason.

After the purchase of the other two, her headstone was a gift of pity from the marble company; given to a poor family who had nothing and whose only teenage survivor had even less.

She glanced at her parents' marker. Poor no more, she said. The thought of them depressed her. Sara needed to put the past behind and focus on her exciting new life.

She stared at her sister's name. I saw him again, she said, smiling and feeling hopeful. She thought about the man she had recently seen on several occasions in a restaurant in Sacramento. The first time, he and his group sat in the booth behind her where she sat alone. His voice was distinct but not boisterous. He spoke of an older brother who had taught him to ride a bicycle and who, long ago, would teach him to ride a motorcycle after the brother returned from Vietnam. The man spoke of his sister as if she were a financial genius. He spoke lovingly of his siblings and parents. Clearly, family meant everything to him. Sara tried not to eavesdrop and felt guilty listening, but his family seemed the kind she could only dream of.

Their group departed ahead of her. As they passed her booth, the man turned and looked her straight in the eyes. He had short dark wavy hair and deep-set brooding eyes like blue-topaz sparklers! Their eyes locked into the kind of stare that made a connection long before words were spoken. He slowed his pace, and his intensity softened. He finally smiled, and his curiously sad expression melted.

Sara had gone back to the restaurant several times and each time saw the man leaving with a couple of other men. Her timing always seemed off. On another occasion, she had walked out of the restaurant just as they walked in.

Hello there, the man with the blue-topaz eyes had said.

Hello, Sara said. All she could do was walk away because making an excuse to go back inside seemed contrived.

On yet another of her jaunts to a furniture shop in Sacramento, that same man walked down the street with others. While she sat at the light and wondered how they might meet, he walked into a building on the next block. As she drove past, she saw that the building housed government agencies. She wondered about the man until she realized she was quite taken with him. Or was it his love of family?

The next time I see him at that restaurant, she said to Starla's headstone, I'll start the conversation. Sitting at Starla's gravesite allowed her to relax and sort out her thoughts. She had not seen man in the three weeks since. She had to overcome her shyness about meeting men. Some part of her childhood programming still wanted her to believe she didn't measure up. She knew it was wrong to think that way and vowed this was another flawed aspect of her personality that she would overcome. It was never too late to change, and she really did wish to find a new love one day.

Since returning to the Delta, she wondered if anyone would recognize her after thirty years. Would they remember her? Other than her family's deaths, that were considered just more river drowning, her life back then had been unremarkable.

Another image that stayed with her from her teen years was when the Sheriff had to inform her about the accident. The horrible pictures and images flashed in her mind, fresh as yesterday.

She had stayed home alone to work on a class project. Her parents were late getting home, with Starla. When they drank they were always late. Unbeknownst to her, while she sat doing homework, deputies searched the Sacramento River with grappling hooks just a quarter mile down the levee. They found the old family sedan at the bottom lodged in silt under eighteen feet of water. Her mom and dad, still in their seatbelts, probably drowned easily, having been too intoxicated to know they had inhaled river water instead of air. The divers found scrawny little Starla floating with her eyes wide open in the air pocket inside the top of the car.

Little Sis, Sara said to the headstone. You've been my guiding star all these years. She grabbed more twigs and withered leaves and cast them aside without caring, onto her parents' graves. Her fingertips turned red and numb. The gigantic tree nearby was just a sapling when Sara buried her family. She sat cross-legged on the cool grass and stared at Starla's name. Patches of fog slipped in with dusk.

I learned something else, she said. We never were poor little white trash girls like they used to call us. She wished she could talk to her sister like they rattled and played when they were young. Memories flooded her mind and jumbled her thoughts.

Today's Valentine's Day.

Sara remembered that particular holiday as being nothing more than a popularity contest in grammar school to see who would receive the most Valentine cards from classmates. She was lucky to get one or two. Perky little Starla had been deprived of learning how popular she would have been.

Your name's famous now.

She closed her eyes and then finally opened them. Mandy died, she said quietly. But you've been up there watching everything unfold, haven't you?

Sara felt a chill and huddled inside her jacket. The breeze whipped her hair across her face and wrapped it around her neck. When she looked up, she could no longer see the grave markers in the rows ahead through the oozing white haze.

She remembered the fog of the California Central Valley. The scientific name was Advection Fog. Locals called it tule fog. The condition originated in the San Joaquin Valley. Rains and irrigation would saturate the agricultural area and when a cold mass of winter air invaded the wet valley, moisture in the air thickened and turned into fog. The low-lying blanket of white could cover nearly half of the state for days at a time. In bad years, patchiness in low areas could last well into spring.

Sara gritted her teeth, remembering. Living in Puerto Rico for the last thirty years hadn't dimmed her memories. Tule fog was what surely blinded her drunken father, whose speeding car went flying off the levee road south of the town of Ryde.

She stood, then bent over and scraped more small debris from Starla's grave onto those of her parents. She picked up a spindly dry branch from in front of her own marker and tossed it onto the rest. During a fog, it wouldn't be safe to be on the roads at night. I'll be back, she said.

With that, she turned to leave and couldn't see her white SUV. She walked carefully in the direction she remembered having parked, arms outstretched to feel her way. A break in the fog came, and she found she had walked past it.

Chapter 3

Sara drove cautiously as she made her way home. When fog blanketed the I-5 in the Central Valley, it could easily cause a multi-car pileup. She strained to see through the windshield and slowed thinking she had found the turn-off. She quickly realized she could have driven into a ditch, and her pulse rose.

The reflectors, she said, mumbling in frustration. Where are those…?

The fog separated momentarily. The faint outline of tombstones in the older, mostly abandoned, Franklin Cemetery came into view in the fading evening light. She breathed easier knowing she had turned onto the correct road.

Several small lights ahead was being cast in different directions as she continued her crawl toward home. Three people with flashlights walked the road, laughing and jumping around on the pavement, inviting havoc into their lives should a speeder come upon them. She stopped to avoid hitting them as they cavorted in her headlights. She could tell they were teens by the way they playfully banged on the hood and peered into her passenger window, yelling like Halloween ghouls. The red flame from one of their cigarettes dragged across the side window. She swerved and accelerated to get past them.

Something vague appeared up ahead.

Look out! she said, yelling and stomping on the brakes as a man stepped onto the road a couple feet in front of her. She gave the horn a good long blast. Her SUV spun around, and she felt the front tires drop off the pavement.

An old man's face popped out of the shadows of the fog and headlights and then disappeared again into the gloom. Then a face popped up at the driver's side window, made ghoulish by the haze, with a wide-eyed, open-mouthed, penetrating stare. Sara screamed. Her knee banged the steering wheel when she nearly jumped out of the seat. The face leaned closer.

From out of the darkness, a young male voice yelled, Hey! Get outta there!

The old man darted away carrying something with a handle, maybe a hoe or a shovel, as the fog swirled in and erased every trace of him.

Sara remembered the sound of the tires kicking up gravel on the shoulder. Great! Just great. Now which direction was I headed?

Someone pounded on the back window. She jumped again. A flashlight beam shone around. It was those teens. One appeared at the driver's side window and knocked. Hey, you okay? the boy called out. When she opened the window a crack, he said, C'mon, we'll get you back on the road. His marijuana breath floated in.

She sighed with relief as the other teens flashed lights and stood along the right shoulder of the pavement. Carefully, the first teen told her how far to back up and then banged on the rear window to tell her to stop, then to pull forward.

When the tires told her that she was back on the pavement, she yelled out the window, Thank you. I'm grateful.

Hey, the boy said. His face was a lot less threatening as he came close again. That's Crazy Ike. He gets off on digging in graveyards.

And running people off the road, Sara said. He digs in graveyards?

Yeah, he's pretty bizarre, the boy said. The other teens came to stand behind him. This graveyard's not used much anymore.

He has a mean dog, the girl said. A little mangy mutt.

Oh, yeah, the other boy said as they all leaned in close. If Crazy Ike sics him on ya, you're supposed to call the cops.

People go missing out here, the girl said. She shook her head doubtfully. Never hear from 'em again.

Nah, the first boy said with a wave of his hand. That's BS. They stepped away.

Thanks again, Sara said. She closed the window, waved, and started off, cautiously. Her chest heaved with a long sigh of relief. Perhaps she should have offered the teens a ride, but they were out there, evidently because they wanted to be. She didn't need to be picking up strangers, least of all, any who smoked dope. She continued to strain to see through the fog. Perfect cover for a serial killer, if you ask me! she said, realizing her fright was partially caused by the elusive madman newscasts.

The fog came steadily without much clearing between one blanketing haze and the next. Sara had not wanted to be on the roads at dusk at