Deciding when to initially interview a suspect was always tricky. Travis would probably not yet think he was a suspect. Speaking to him now would catch him off guard and might make him blurt out statements that could be used against him; he might even confess. On the other hand, he could destroy evidence or flee.

Debating.

What finally decided it for her was a simple memory. The look in Tammy Foster's eyes-the fear of reprisal. And the fear that the perp would attack someone else.

She knew they had to move fast.

"Yep. Let's go see him."

The Brigham family lived in a scabby bungalow whose yard was strewn with car parts and old appliances, half dismantled. Green garbage bags, out of which flowed trash and rotting leaves, sat amid broken toys and tools. A scruffy cat stared cautiously out from a nest of vines beneath an overgrown hedgerow. It was too lazy or full to care about a pudgy gray rat that skittered past. O'Neil parked in the gravel drive, forty feet or so away from the house, and he and Dance climbed out of his unmarked MCSO car.

They studied the area.

It was like a scene from the rural South, vegetation thick, no other houses in sight, dereliction. The debilitated state of the house and the pungent aroma suggesting a nearby, and inefficient, sewer or a swamp explained how the family could afford such secluded property in this high-priced part of the state.

As they started toward the house she found her hand dangling near her pistol butt, her jacket unbuttoned.

She was spooked, alert.

Still, it was a shock when the boy attacked them.

They had just passed a patch of anemic, reedy grass beside the lopsided detached garage when she turned to O'Neil and found the deputy stiffen as he looked past her. His arm rose and gripped her jacket, pulling her forward to the ground.

"Michael!" she cried.

The rock sailed over her head, missing her by inches, and crashed through a garage window. Another followed a moment later. O'Neil had to duck fast to avoid getting hit. He crashed into a narrow tree.

"You all right?" he asked quickly.

A nod. "You see where it was from?"

"No."

They were scanning the thicket of woods bordering the property.

"There!" she called, pointing at the boy, in sweats and a stocking cap, who was staring at them. He turned and fled.

Dance debated only a moment. Neither of them had radios; this hadn't been planned as a tactical mission. And to return to O'Neil's car to call in a pursuit to Dispatch would have taken too long. They had a chance to catch Travis now and instinctively they went after him, sprinting forward.

CBI agents learn basic hand-to-hand combat skills-though most, Dance included, had never been in a fistfight. They also are required to have physical fitness checkups every so often. Dance was in fair shape, though not thanks to the CBI's regimen but to her treks into the wilderness to track down music for her website. Despite the impractical outfit-black skirt suit and blouse-she now eased ahead of Michael O'Neil as they pushed fast into the woods in pursuit of the boy.

Who was moving just a little faster.

O'Neil had his cell phone out and was breathlessly calling in a request for backup.

They were both gasping hard and Dance wondered how Dispatch could understand him.

The boy vanished for a moment and the officers slowed. Then Dance cried, "Look," spotting him emerge from bushes about fifty feet away. "Weapon?" she gasped. He held something dark in his hand.

"Can't tell."

Could have been a gun, though maybe a pipe or a knife.

Either way…

He vanished into a dense part of the woods, beyond which Dance could just see a glimmer of a green pond. Probably the source of the stench.

O'Neil glanced at her.

She sighed and nodded. Simultaneously they drew their Glocks.

They pushed forward again.

Dance and O'Neil had worked a number of cases together and fell instinctively into a symbiotic mode on an investigation. But they were at their best when solving intellectual puzzles, not playing soldier.

She had to remind herself: finger off the trigger, never cross in front of your partner's weapon and lift your muzzle if he crosses in front of you, fire only if threatened, check your backdrop, shoot in bursts of three, count your rounds.

Dance hated this.

Yet it was a chance to stop the Roadside Cross attacker. Picturing Tammy Foster's terrified eyes, Dance rushed through the woods.

The boy vanished again, and she and O'Neil pulled up, where two paths diverged. Travis had probably taken one-the vegetation was very thick here, impassible in parts. O'Neil silently pointed left, then right, raising an eyebrow.

Flip a coin, she thought, angry and unsettled that she'd have to separate from O'Neil. She nodded toward the left.

They began easing carefully down their respective routes.

Dance was moving through the thickets, thinking how unsuited she was to this role. Her world was one of words and expressions and nuances of gesture. Not tactical work, like this.

She knew how people got hurt, how they died, stepping out of the zones they were in harmony with. A sense of foreboding filled her.

Stop, she told herself. Find Michael, go back to the car and wait for backup.

Too late.

Just then Dance heard a rustling at her feet, and glanced down to see that the boy, hiding in the bushes next to her, had flung a large branch in her way. It caught her foot as she tried to jump over it and she went down hard. Struggling to keep from falling, Dance rolled onto her side.

Which had the effect of saving her wrist.

And another consequence: the boxy, black Glock flew from her hand and vanished into the bushes.

Only seconds later, Dance heard the rustle of bushes once more as the boy, apparently waiting to make certain she was alone, charged out of the bushes.

CARELESS, MICHAEL O'NEIL thought angrily.

He was running in the direction of Dance's cry, but realized now he had no idea where she was.

They should have stayed together. Careless to split up. Yes, it made sense-to cover as much ground as they could-but while he'd been in several firefights and a couple of street pursuits, Kathryn Dance had not.

If anything happened to her…

In the distance sirens sounded, growing louder. The backup was getting closer. O'Neil slowed to a walk, listening carefully. Maybe the rustle of bushes nearby. Maybe not.

Careless too because Travis would know this area perfectly. It was, literally, his backyard. He'd know where to hide, what paths to escape down.

The gun, weighing nothing in his large hand, swung ahead of O'Neil, as he looked for the attacker.

Frantic.

Pushing ahead another twenty feet. Finally he had to risk some noise. "Kathryn?" he called in a whisper.

Nothing.

Louder: "Kathryn?"

The wind rustled brush and trees.

Then: "Michael, here!" A choked sound. From nearby. He raced toward her words. Then he found her ahead of him on a path, on her hands and knees. Her head down. He heard gasping. Was she wounded? Had Travis struck her with a pipe? Stabbed her?

O'Neil had to suppress his overwhelming urge to tend to her, see how badly hurt she was. He knew procedures. He ran closer, stood over her, his eyes scanning, swiveling around, looking for a target.

At last, some distance away, he saw Travis's back vanish.

"He's gone," Dance said, pulling her weapon from a thicket of bushes and rising to her feet. "Headed that way."

"You hurt?"

"Sore, that's all."

She did seem to be unharmed, but she was dusting at her suit in a way that was troubling to him. She was uncharacteristically shaken, disoriented. He could hardly blame her. But Kathryn Dance had always been a bulwark he could count on, a standard he measured his own behavior against. Her gestures reminded him that they were out of their element here, that this case wasn't a typical gangbanger hit or a weapons smuggling ring cruising up and down the 101.