‘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.’

Maggie rose and, with a glance toward Boling, then O’Neil, Dance followed her outside. She knew that the serious conversation, postponed the other night, was now going to happen.

‘Come on, hon. Tell me. You’ve been sad for a long time now.’

Maggie looked at a hummingbird, hovering over the feeder.

‘I don’t think I want to sing that song tomorrow.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. Clara’s not performing.’

‘Clara just had her appendix out. Your whole class is doing something.’

The name of the show was Mrs Bendix’s Sixth Grade Class’s Got Talent!, which told it all. There were to be skits, dance performances, piano recitals, violin solos. Her teacher had persuaded Maggie to sing after she’d performed a perfect solo of ‘America The Beautiful’ at an assembly.

‘I keep forgetting the words.’

‘Really?’ Dance’s tone called her on the lie.

‘Well, like, sometimes I forget them.’

‘We’ll work on it together. I’ll get the Martin out. Okay? It’ll be fun.’

For a moment Maggie’s face was so dismayed that Dance felt alarm. What was this all about?

‘Honey?’

A dark look.

‘If you don’t want to sing, you don’t have to.’

‘I … Really?’ Her face blossomed.

‘Really. I’ll call Mrs Bendix.’

‘Tell her I have a sore throat.’

‘Mags. We don’t lie.’

‘It gets sore sometimes.’

‘I’ll tell her you’re not comfortable singing. You can do the Bach invention on your violin. That’s beautiful.’

‘Really? It’s okay?’

‘Of course.’

‘Even if …’ Her voice faded and her eyes fled to the tiny band-throated hummer, sipping sugar water.

‘Even if what?’

‘Nothing.’ Maggie beamed. ‘Thanks, Mommy! Love you, love you!’ She ran off, back to breakfast, happier than Dance had seen her in weeks.

Whatever was motivating her not to sing, Dance knew she’d made the right decision. As a mother, you had to prioritize. And forcing her daughter to sing in a sixth-grade talent show was not an important issue. She called the teacher and left a message, relaying the news. If there was any problem, Mrs Bendix could call her back. Otherwise, they’d be at the school at six thirty tomorrow, violin in hand.

Dance returned to the kitchen table, and as she ate a mouthful of toast O’Neil’s phone beeped. He took a look at the screen. ‘Got it.’

‘The address of the guy who posted?’

‘His service area.’ He scooted back in the chair. ‘They’re still working on his name and exact address.’

‘Jon …’ Dance began.

‘I’ll get the gang to practices,’ he said, smiling. ‘No worries.’

Wes for tennis. Maggie’d taken up gymnastics – something she hadn’t been interested in until her friend Bethany, the cheerleader, had suggested she try it.

‘And Quinzos after,’ Boling told the kids. ‘Only be sure you don’t tell your mother. Oh, oops!’

Maggie laughed. Wes gave a thumbs-up.

‘Thanks.’ Dance kissed him.

O’Neil was on the phone now. ‘Really, okay. Good. Can you get a state plane?’

Plane?

He disconnected. ‘Got it.’

‘Where’re we headed?’ Dance wiped some honey from her finger.

‘LA. Well, south. Orange County.’

‘I’ll go pack.’

CHAPTER 37

Antioch March opened his eyes and tried to recall where he was.

Oh. Right.

A motel off the 101.

After getting the Google alert on his phone, he’d tried to make it all the way to his destination last night. But there’d been delays. He’d needed to steal a car – an old black Chevy, it turned out – from the long-term lot at Monterey Regional Airport. He’d thought there was a possibility he’d have to abandon his wheels when he arrived at the destination and he wasn’t prepared to lose the Honda just yet.

There were better ways to get an untraceable car than theft, much better, but this matter was urgent and he’d had no choice but to steal the vehicle. Hotwiring, it turned out, was really quite simple: pull the ignition harness bundle out, gang together everything but the – in this case – blue wire. Rig a toggle, then touch the blue wire to the bound leads (let go right away or you’ll ruin the starter). Then pop the cover off the lock assembly and knock out the steering-wheel pin. Easy.

Still, he hadn’t hit the road until about two a.m.

Several hours later, fatigue had caught up with him there, near Oxnard, and he’d had to stop for some rest. He imagined what would have happened if he’d dipped to snoozing and run off the road. The Highway Patrol, suspecting drinking, would have possibly found the Glock 9mm and a car registration that had someone else’s name on it. And the evening would not have gone well.

So he’d made a stop there, at a dive of a motel, along with truck drivers, Disney-bound tourists and college students, whose energy for copulation was quite astonishing, as well as noisy.

Now, close to eight a.m., March rose slowly to waking, thinking about the dream he’d just had.

Often Serena. Sometimes Jessica.

This one had been about Todd.

Todd at Harrison Gorge. It was in upstate New York, on a busy river, one that led ultimately to the Hudson.

The park and nearby town, Colonial era, was a romantic getaway, four hours from Manhattan. The day he was thinking of, the Day of Todd, was nestled in the midst of leaf season. Officially out of school then, working in sales, he’d been in Ithaca, New York, a call. He’d kept some sentimental ties to academia by working for a company that sold audio-visual equipment to colleges. After a lackluster pitch at Cornell, he’d recognized the symptoms: edgy, depressed. The Get was prodding. He’d cancelled a second meeting and left, driving back to his motel.

He’d seen the park on the way and decided, on a whim, to check it out. March spent an hour hiking along the trails, surrounded by leaves spectacular even in light mellowed by low-hanging clouds. March had his camera and shot some pictures as he walked. The rocks, brown and gray like ancient bone, and stark tree trunks impressed him more than the colors.