Solitude Creek

O’Neil, his face completely neutral, said, ‘Wes let me in. I tried to call but your phone was off.’

She’d shut it off intentionally before easing into bed, not wanting to risk a call — that is, risk hearing O’Neil’s ringtone, an Irish ballad, courtesy of the kids — at a moment like that. She’d fallen asleep before turning it back on. Careless. Unprofessional.

‘I …’ she began, but could think of not a single syllable to utter past that. She glanced toward the busy bees hard at work on breakfast.

‘Hi, Mom!’ Maggie said. ‘There was this show on TV about badgers and there’s this one kind, a honey badger, and this bird called a honeyguide leads it to a beehive and a badger rips it open and eats honey and its coat is so thick it doesn’t get stung. Hi, Jon.’

As if he’d lived there for years.

Wes, on his phone, nodded a cheerful greeting with a smile to both mother and boyfriend.

Mother and daughter went to work, wrangling breakfast — including honey for the French toast, of course. Dance glanced toward Wes. ‘Who?’ she whispered, nodding at his phone.

‘Donnie.’

‘Say hi for me and then hang up.’

Wes said hi, kept talking and, under her gaze, clicked off.

O’Neil, who might very well have spent the night with Ms Ex-O’Neil, kept his eyes on the juice. From his solid frame, a dozen kinesic messages were firing, like cylinders in a sports car. Or a white SUV, made by the Lexus division of Toyota Motors.

Enough, she told herself.

Let it go …

Boling made coffee. ‘Michael?’ Lifting a cup.

‘Sure.’ Then O’Neil added to Dance, ‘Something’s come up. That’s what I was trying to get in touch with you about.’

‘Solitude Creek?’

‘Right.’

Dance didn’t need to glance at the children, from whom she kept most aspects of her job. It was O’Neil who nodded toward the front hall. She told Maggie to set the table. Boling grilled the toast and made bacon. Wes had taken to texting again but Dance said nothing about it.

As she followed O’Neil, she realized that her top button was undone; she’d been distracted earlier. She fixed it with a gesture she tried to make casual but that she was sure drew attention to the V of flesh, dotted with faint freckles. And silently gave a word of thanks to whatever impulse had told her not to go with the robe and lacy Victoria’s Secret gown before heading downstairs.

‘There’s a lead we ought to follow up on. Out of town.’

‘The unsub’s Honda?’

‘No. The alert we’ve got for online activity.’

She and O’Neil had spoken to Amy Grabe, San Francisco, and she’d had the FBI’s powerful online monitoring network search for any references to either of the two attacks. It was not unheard of for witnesses to unintentionally post helpful information about crimes; there had even been instances when the perp had bragged about his cleverness. ‘Last night somebody posted a clip on Vidster.’

Dance knew it. A YouTube competitor.

‘What was it?’

‘Some of the press footage — shot of a TV screen — of the roadhouse. And stills of other incidents.’

‘Others?’

‘Not related to what happened here. It was a rant by somebody named Ahmed. He said this is what Islam will do to the West, that sort of thing. Didn’t take credit for it exactly but we should check it out.’

‘What other incidents?’

‘Some foreign. A beheading of Christians in Iraq, a car bomb outside of Paris. A train wreck in New York, derailment. And then another stampede — a few years ago in Fort Worth. A nightclub.’

‘I read about that. But the perp died in the incident. A homeless guy.’

‘Well, Ahmed claims he was jihadist.’

O’Neil scrolled through his phone. He displayed some clips. Bodies close up, lying in their desperate still poses, asleep for ever.

‘And that was supposedly the work of some terror cell?’

‘More or less.’

‘Have we got his address?’

‘Not yet. Soon, the tech people said.’

‘Mom!’ Maggie called.

‘Be right there.’

He slipped the phone away and they walked into the kitchen. O’Neil said, ‘I should go.’

‘Aw, no, stay!’ Wes said.

Dance said nothing.

‘Yeah, Michael. Pleeeease.’ Maggie was in her persuasive mode.

Boling said, ‘Come on, have something. It’s Kathryn’s secret recipe.’

She said, ‘Eggs, milk. But don’t tell anybody.’

‘Sure, I guess.’

They all sat at the table and Dance dished up.

Wes said, ‘Wow, I saw on the news that guy did another one.’

Dance said, ‘It looks that way.’

‘Did another what?’ Maggie asked.

‘Hurt some people at the Bay View Center.’

Her daughter asked quietly, ‘Did anybody die?’

Dance never over-explained but she always answered their questions truthfully and directly. ‘Yes.’

‘Oh.’

They ate in silence for a while. Dance had little appetite. Boling and O’Neil did. So did Wes.

She sipped coffee and noted that Maggie was troubled again and was now picking at her French toast. ‘Honey?’ she whispered, lowering her head. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing. I’m just not hungry any more.’

‘Drink your juice.’

She had a minuscule sip. Her face was now very clouded. After a moment she said, ‘Mom? I was thinking.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

Dance glanced at the others, then said to her daughter, ‘Let’s go on the Deck.’