Sunlight filtered through the stained glass, spreading a kaleidoscope of colors across Jon's desk. His agitated fingers brushed across the blocks of pigment. His body jerked at the sound of noise outside the rectory. He stood and hurried to the door, cracking it open. He pressed his face close to the narrow slit and peered into the dimly lit church. A woman from the neighborhood knelt at the altar. Her frail hands struck a match and lit a candle as she bowed her head in prayer. Jon closed the door and exhaled.

Jon dug his fists into the pockets of his clerical robe. His face twitched and deepened the lines on his forehead. He'd done many things in his life, but this one gnawed at his gut as it twisted and turned. His bulging eyes fixated on the door across the room. His breathing was ragged as he waited for it to open and prayed it never would. Hell dwelled beneath this House of God. A sinister operation pulsed and prospered beneath the floors. Once a wine cellar, its large, dank rooms, forgotten by most, used by some.

The creak of the door sent chills spiraling down Jon's spine. His ridged back pressed against the door connecting his office to the church. His left hand, hidden by his robe, wrapped around the doorknob, preparing his escape. As the door opened, Jon froze in fear.
Three unsavory Coyotes carrying automatic weapons exited the rectory from the dark foyer leading to the cellar, silently crossed the room, and went through the door leading to the parking lot behind the church. The fourth man closed the door behind him, taking care to secure the heavy bar that latched it. Satisfied, he pushed the heavy mahogany bookcase back into place, concealing the entrance.

The Coyote's dark, penetrating eyes bore through Jon like smoking guns. He twirled his handlebar mustache and spat a wad of chewing tobacco into the wastepaper basket, splattering brown bits on Jon's white robe. His upper lip curled when he smiled, exposing a row of caramel-colored teeth.

"You're not afraid of Pedro, are you, Father?" Not expecting an answer, he chuckled and asked, "Miguel left?"

Jon swallowed the lump in his throat. His eyes focused on the carpet pattern, not the man. His voice trembled as he mumbled, "About an hour ago."

"Good. Senor Mason will give you instructions." Without another word, he opened the exit door, surveyed the parking lot, and slipped away.

Jon rushed across the room. His shaking hand fumbled with the bolt as he struggled to block the evil from returning. Bile rose in his throat, and he stumbled into the tiny lavatory. The cold-water faucet squeaked as he turned it toward him. He cupped both hands beneath the flow and tossed the water on his face. He opened his eyes, lifted his head and gasped. A despicable lost soul replaced his reflection. Jon's fingers gripped the side of the sink. His stomach churned. A vision of frightened men and women cowering in the damp darkness below replaced his reflection.

He gagged, and vomit spewed into the basin. A gruesome moan ripped from deep inside Jon as he wept, "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

************

Miguel guided the oversized box truck through the shipping entrance doors. The vineyard supervisor hopped down from the cab and handed Darryl the shipping papers just as Hank and Garth cleared the rose garden and walked toward the truck. Several workers' voices carried across the early morning air as they discussed the unloading of the truck with Miguel and Darryl. Cynthia and Michael waved to Hank and Garth as they said goodbye to Darryl and Miguel and walked toward the vineyards.

"Good morning, gentlemen. Hope we didn't interrupt something with you and the neighbors."

"Who? Oh, you mean Cynthia and her nephew. They just asked if they could walk the trails up around the lake. Since the cops are done, and it's no longer a crime scene, I didn't see any reason why not."

Hank nodded to Miguel and his men. "By the size of this truck, you must have your work cut out for you this morning."

Darryl laughed. "Just the usual weekly grind."

Miguel nodded to his men and turned to his boss. "I'll get the men started, so we can be unloaded before the sun gets too hot."

"Need any help? We might not be as young as you, but we're still strong." Garth flexed his arms to prove his point.

"What's on the truck? Liz said she didn't recall a delivery." Hank watched the men open the large rear truck doors. He stepped closer and peered into the back of the truck. "Quite a load."

"Jack liked to streamline the work. He decided we should receive the new oak wine barrels and then reload the outgoing wine shipments all at one time. We set aside one day each week instead of breaking up several days. Miguel leaves on a Tuesday night, drives to our supplier in San Diego, picks up the barrels, brings them to the winery, and then takes a new shipment of wine to the docks for shipping."

"San Diego? Why so far?" Garth questioned Darryl. "Aren't there closer suppliers?"

"Yes, but it's all in the wine's aging. Jack preferred charred oak barrels, even though they cost more. This company also does our labeling, so another step is eliminated before the barrels arrive. We still buy cheaper ones from a local supplier."

"Efficient. Jack always was a stickler for streamlining things." Hank smiled at Darryl. "Guess we better let you get your job done. I would guess Liz is wondering where we disappeared too again."

"One question. If the shipment goes out the same day, how does the wine have time to age?"

"That's easy, Garth. The Cranstons used giant stainless-steel vats for their white wine and three specially constructed oak ones for the darker grapes. We transferred the wine from the vats to the smaller barrels, and then they are shipped."

"Wow! It sounds like everything is down to a science. No smashing of the grapes with your feet anymore, I guess." The men laughed as Hank jumped up and down, imitating the Italian women who stomped the grapes long ago.

Garth rolled his eyes at his friend's ridiculous animations. "Come on, old man, before you throw something out of whack." They waved goodbye and headed back to the house.

**********
Liz could hear the two men laughing as they entered the house. She'd been studying the faxes received from Emmy. Her face didn't wear worry and confusion well. She raised her eyes from the papers and turned to address Hank and Garth.

"You both need to look at these. It appears Darryl isn't who he says he is." Liz handed the first fax to Hank. "I guess Jack didn't do a background check."

Hank looked over the fax and handed it to Garth. "Calm down, Liz. Don't jump to conclusions."

"Hank, he's been in prison. Police questioned him about the Cranston murders. And now Jack is dead? Oh my God, Hank, he could be responsible for my husband's murder." She stood and walked to the window, staring toward the winery. "We should call the sheriff."
"Whoa, Liz. That's a big jump. Jack was an excellent judge of character." Hank moved to her side and wrapped his arm around her shoulder. "He mentioned the young man's background in one of our conversations. He trusted Darryl."

"Humpfff... that's probably what got him killed." Liz stepped away from the window. "He needs to go."

Garth raised his head from the papers in his hand. "Liz, Hank's right. If Jack was aware of Darryl's past, maybe we should move a little slower. As a juvenile, he got mixed up with the wrong crowd and arrested for possession of drugs. Darryl served his time. His family disowned him, and he moved west, landing a job with the Cranstons. They must have liked the young man. It says they paid his college tuition."

"And he paid them back by getting involved in drugs again. How can you trust someone who repays your generous support like that?" Liz sank into the leather Queen Anne, sweeping her long blonde hair away from her face and into a ponytail.

"Ted Cranston caught him growing marijuana behind the barn. That's not a big-time drug dealer."

"Just keep reading, Garth. What about the fight where he threatened to kill Ted Cranston?"

"Your sheriff investigated it. According to the report, the officer gathered the information from your neighbor, Cynthia. Her actual quote was, 'she heard him say he wished the Cranstons were dead.' It was hearsay and not admissible. In Darryl's defense, he told the police that she pursued a relationship with him, and when he didn't show any interest, she conveniently recalled the argument."

"Cynthia's a respected librarian. He's just a bald-faced liar."

Garth handed the other fax to Hank. "Personally, I see more red flags with Miguel."

"Miguel? I admit he gives me the creeps, but Emmy didn't find a criminal record. He was born in the United States and came from a family of eight children. Four of them work on the farm, one works in the shipping yards, one makes barrels for a manufacturing company, and the two younger children work with their mother. Sounds like an upstanding family to me."

"On the surface, maybe. But Miguel's mother is Sofia Sanchez, the woman whose testimony put Cynthia in prison with Allie beside her."

"Oh, Allie," Liz wailed, "You need to get her out of there, Garth. She's not safe."

"I know. As soon as Allie gets Cassidy to talk, I'll yank her out of there. I promise." A worried frown passed over Garth's face. "For now, Hank, can you ask Emmy to do a little more digging into Sofia Sanchez? My gut tells me there's more to that woman's story than raising eight children."

The fax machine beeped, and another paper began printing.

"It's another fax from Emmy." Hank read the paper as it printed. "Looks like your gut instinct is still working, Garth. Look at this."

Garth leaned over Hank's shoulder and read the report. "I knew it! Sofia Sanchez's social security number belongs to a woman who has been dead for thirty years, about the time she started working for the Caldwell family."