Blood Vines

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Friday, March 12

3:30 P.M.

Alex took Ferris’s suggestion and headed for Sommer Winery. There she discovered that she had arrived in time to make the four o’clock tour, the last of the day. The for-a-fee tour took in both the winery and caves, then ended in the tasting room to sample several Sommer wines.

She bought a ticket, then was directed to the museum for the winery’s history and a short video on winemaking. She made her way there; a half dozen others already waited. Catching parts of various conversations, she learned the Sommer tour was considered one of the best in wine country.

Covered with photographs and other memorabilia, the museum walls served as a visual history of the winery, from its early days making inexpensive jug wine to now, an internationally renowned name in California wine.

But what captured her interest were the labeled photographs. Harlan and Treven as boys, then young men. Harlan’s first wife. Rachel, from infant to the winemaker she was today. Treven’s wife, his son Clark-again glorifying his ascent from childhood athlete and young scholar to company president.

But not a single photograph of her mother or Dylan. None of her.

She must have missed something, Alex thought. She quickly walked the room again, scanning the clusters of photographs.

She hadn’t. It stung. Her mother and Dylan hadn’t even registered as a blip on the Sommer family timeline.

The guide arrived and called them all to join her. The group had burgeoned to twenty-one, Alex saw. She also noted she was the only person traveling without a companion.

The tour began in the crushing area. The guide described the grape-sorting process, how those grapes were mechanically transported to the crusher-destemmer. The machine’s blades and chewers created free-run juice. Nobody stomped grapes with their feet anymore, the guide informed them-only as part of demonstrations or winemaking history lessons.

They moved on to the fermenting tanks. Stainless steel, the tanks stood twelve feet tall and each held three thousand gallons of fermenting wine.

“Notice the catwalks,” the guide said, pointing to them. “The fermenting juice is accessed there for a process called punching down. The process is actually quite dangerous. Every year there are a number of deaths-”

Alex stared at the tanks, at the catwalk, mouth dry, heart pounding. She pictured Susan Sommer, overcome by CO₂ and tumbling into the tank. What had her last thought been? For the baby she carried in her womb? For the daughter she was leaving behind?

“Are there any questions?” the guide asked.

“Wasn’t there an accident like that here?” Alex called out. “Many years ago?”

The guide looked at her strangely. “Not these tanks. The fermenting area has been totally upgraded and modernized since then.”

“Someone died?” a young woman asked, eyes huge.

“Yes,” the guide answered. “A member of the Sommer family. It was a terrible tragedy, and one we prefer not to talk about.”

“What about the other tragedy?” Alex asked, unable to stop the question from springing from her lips. “The kidnapping I read about? That little boy?”

A murmur went through the group. The guide looked uncomfortable. “Dylan Sommer,” she said. “He was abducted from his bed in 1985. The Sommer family has never given up hope that he’s alive and one day will be home.”

Of course they had, Alex thought. Everybody had moved on. There wasn’t even a picture of him in their museum.

The guide cleared her throat. “Now, if there are no more questions, let’s move on to the highlight of our tour, the wine caves. The Sommer caves are some of the oldest and largest of the wine country caves, rivaled only by those at Schramsberg.”

The guide talked while she led them from the fermenting area to the caves. “These were hand-dug which, with twenty-six thousand square feet of tunnels, is simply amazing.

“Caves,” she continued, “are the original green solution to refrigeration. The interior keeps the wine at a comfortable fifty-eight degrees with seventy percent humidity. We store approximately two thousand barrels in ours.”

They reached the cave entrance. Alex’s thoughts flooded with the memory of the other night, of being lost, of panicking.

The smell of incense. The sound of laughter. Her chest growing tight, her heart racing. Panic grabbing ahold of her.

No, she told herself. This moment has nothing to do with that one.

“Prepare yourself,” the woman continued, “between the insufficient lighting and the lichen growing on the ceiling and walls, it’s pretty creepy. But don’t worry, as far as I know, there are no ghosts.”

But there were, Alex thought. Ghosts of the past. Of the life she should remember, but couldn’t.

“Are you all right, dear?”

That came from the woman beside her, a kindly looking senior. The rest of the group, she saw, had entered the cave. Alex forced a weak smile. “I have trouble with closed-in spaces. Is it that obvious?”

“It is. You’re white as a sheet.”

“I’ll be fine.”

The woman patted her arm. “That’s the spirit. Just stick with me. I was a nurse, back in the day.”

They caught up with the group. The tour guide was describing the original process of cave formation. “Chinese laborers were used to dig these caves out of the side of the mountain. You’ll be surprised by the…”

Alex worked to focus on the guide’s words, to slow her heart and breathe evenly and deeply.

“… use only French oak barrels. The barrels cost anywhere from five hundred to two thousand dollars each.”

The group chattered excitedly. Her Florence Nightingale had wandered back to her husband. Blindly, Alex followed the guide, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.

She began to sweat. The clammy sweat of panic. Her heart beat so high and fast it felt as if it had climbed up into her throat.

Why was this happening to her?

Get out, find the exit.

“… high humidity reduces the amount of evaporation from the barrels. Now stay with me,” the guide called, “it’s easy to get disoriented in here.”

Dylan. As her brother’s name popped into her head, so did his image. A beautiful dark-haired baby. Cooing up at her. Smiling.

Then screaming.

Alex stopped. She brought a hand to her mouth. The smell of incense filled her head.

She looked wildly around her. The group had rounded the bend and disappeared from sight. Alex took a step backward. Then another. And another.

Not backward, she realized. Sideways. She was pressed against the cave wall, surrounded by the stacked oak barrels. The fingers of lichen brushed against her face and scalp and she pushed at them, a cry rising in her throat.

The smell of incense grew stronger. It burned her nose. She opened her mouth to call out to the group, to call for help. Her head filled instead with a wild thrumming.

She flattened herself against the wall, even as she was dragged into a long, musty tunnel. Her vision narrowed until it consisted of a small, round opening at the end.

The light flickered crazily. Not lights, she realized. Flames dancing around her. Crackling, their bright, hot tentacles reaching out to her. Surrounding her. The howls of creatures, writhing within the fire. Being consumed by it.

One of the creatures grabbed her arm, its bony fingers like claws digging into her skin.

“Miss? Are you all right? Miss?”

A security guard. She blinked, coming fully back into reality. He had a round, pleasant face. He was looking at her with a combination of concern and suspicion. As if she had sprouted horns.

In a way she had.

“Get me out of here,” she managed. “Please.”

Hand on her elbow to guide her, he led her out of the cave. She stepped into the fading sunlight and greedily sucked in the fresh air, as if she had been deprived, suffocating.

What the hell was happening to her?

“I need to sit down.”

He led her to a bench not far from the cave entrance. She sat and lowered her head to her knees, breathing deeply, fear fading and her resolve returning.

She straightened. “How did you find me?”

“Ma’am?”

“Did I scream?”

He looked at her oddly. “No, ma’am.”

“I have claustrophobia,” she lied. “It’s something I’m working on.”

“Can I see you to your vehicle? Get you a glass of water or-”

“No. The tasting room, which way is it?”

By his expression she could tell that in his opinion, wine was the last thing she needed. What he didn’t know was, wine was the last thing on her mind. She meant to get a look at her mother’s painting.