Solitude Creek

Southern shook his head, looking over the growing crowd of park-goers. These were his people, those he was in charge of protecting. Dismayed, he said, ‘Hostages?’

But, to Dance, a taking seemed unlikely. The strategy was that you negotiated only to buy time to talk reason into the hostage-taker or to get a sniper into position for a kill shot. You never gave him his freedom. This unsub was smart — no, brilliant. He’d guess that grabbing a hostage was a futile proposition.

She explained this, glancing at O’Neil, who agreed.

Then she said, ‘Here’s a thought. We don’t have a solid facial ID but he doesn’t know that. Can we—’ Dance looked around and saw a business office nearby. ‘Can we get a hundred printouts?’

‘Of what?’

O’Neil was nodding. He got it. ‘Of anything with a man’s face. Distribute them to officers and security people. Walk through the park, just looking at them from time to time and scanning the crowd.’

‘And keeping an eye out for anybody tall and blond, whatever he’s wearing. Anybody who turns away or avoids eye contact, that’ll be him.’

Southern walked to the office and a few minutes later came back with a stack of paper. He held one up. ‘Message from our new manager. Just saying hi to all the employees, happy to be working with you, that sort of thing.’

‘Excellent,’ Dance said. It had a face shot of the man, which from more than three feet away could very well be a security camera image of their unsub.

Southern and Ralston divided the sheets to distribute to the officers and guards and sent them on their way.

Dance took one and handed another to O’Neil.

The sergeant said, ‘You want radios?’

‘Phone’s fine for me.’

O’Neil nodded too and they both typed Ralston’s number into theirs.

Then: ‘And Agent Dance needs a weapon.’

‘What?’ she asked. ‘No.’

‘Kathryn,’ O’Neil said firmly.

The Orange County sergeant looked at her curiously.

‘I’m assigned to the Civil Division of the CBI, not authorized to carry,’ she explained.

‘Oh,’ Ralston said. That settled it. It would be illegal to hand over a weapon.

O’Neil sighed and said, ‘Then why don’t you stay near the entrance and—’

Wait here …

But Dance was already walking through an open turnstile, right under the nose of a large and disturbingly realistic grizzly bear in a Viking helmet, glaring down at her angrily.

CHAPTER 44

Antioch March was, more or less, in the center of the theme park, near one of the rides — a roundy-round thing for younger kids, where they sat strapped into fiberglass leaves, like lettuce wraps from a Chinese restaurant. The ride would have made him puke.

Nearby was a jungle tour — where the guests were startled by the fierce appearances of oversized carnivores. They were the characters from a huge hit film, a blockbuster. March had seen it. The movie was gruesome and simple. But effective at shocking the audience. As gruesome and simple usually were.

The fake canyon he was now walking through reminded him of the Harrison Gorge. It was strikingly similar. He could smell the moist stone, the leaves, the loam, the dirt, the water. He could see, vividly, Todd. More than the colored leaves. Far more clearly than the leaves.

Focus here, he told himself. You need to get out, and soon. In an hour there’d be a thousand officers poking under every polyvinyl triceratops and singing bush in the place.

And then he saw them.

Two young men, dressed like tourists but clearly security guards, were glancing at printouts and scanning the crowd.

Hell. Had they gotten an image of him as he sprinted through the gate? He’d seen the dozens of security cameras hidden in trees and in the fake rocks of the exhibits.

March was different in appearance now — he’d done the quick change right in the middle of a crowd waiting for some insane roller-coaster, Tornado Alley, not in a restroom, whose front doors he was sure would be monitored by cameras. But had they gotten a picture after he changed?

Out. You need to get out—

Then he turned and, to his shock, another officer was walking in March’s direction, glancing at his sheet and then at people nearby — men, tall men. He was more than thirty feet away.

The pathway here was fairly narrow and his only option was to keep on walking, nonchalantly, with the crowd he found himself in. Or to turn and walk away, which would seem suspicious.

His pistol was in the shopping bag he carried. He didn’t want to use it but he might have to. He maintained his stroll in the direction he’d started, glancing at a map he’d picked up of the park. He paused and asked a couple for directions. The husband glanced at the map, then pointed to a pathway nearby.

The officer continued in their direction, casually, too casually, looking around.

March chatted to the couple — a pleasant duo with southern accents — and felt the cop’s eyes scan them, then look elsewhere. March glanced over his shoulder and saw the officer walking away, not reaching for radio or phone.