A gull hovered directly in front of them. The angle of attack of his wings adjusted perfectly for the velocity of the wind. He was immobile, twenty feet above the beach.
Dance said, “All along, you know, even when we thought he was the killer, I felt sorry for Travis. His home life, the fact he’s a misfit. Getting cyberbullied like that. And Jon was telling me the blog was just the tip of the iceberg. People were attacking him in instant messages, emails, on other bulletin boards. It’s just so sad it’s turned out this way. He was innocent. Completely innocent.”
O’Neil said nothing for a moment. Then: “He seems sharp. Boling, I mean.”
“He is. Getting the names of the victims. And tracking down Travis’s avatar.”
O’Neil laughed. “Sorry, but I keep picturing you going to Overby about a warrant for a character in a computer game.”
“Oh, he’d do the paperwork in a minute if he thought there was a press conference and a good photo op involved. I could’ve beaned Jon, though, for going to that arcade alone.”
“Playing hero?”
“Yep. Save us from amateurs.”
“He married, have a family?”
“Jon? No.” She laughed. “He’s a bachelor.”
Now there’s a word you haven’t heard for… about a century.
They fell silent, watching the children, who were totally lost in their seaside exploration. Maggie was holding her hand out and pointing to something, probably explaining to O’Neil’s children the name of a shell she’d found.
Wes, Dance noted, was by himself, standing on a damp flat, the water easing up close to his feet in foamy lines.
And as she often did, Dance wondered if her children would be better off if she had a husband, and they had a home with a father. Well, of course they would.
Depending on the man, of course.
There was always that.
A woman’s voice behind them. “Excuse me. Are those your children?”
They turned to see a tourist, to judge by the bag she held from a nearby souvenir shop.
“That’s right,” Dance said.
“I just wanted to say that it’s so nice to see a happily married couple with such lovely children. How long have you been married?”
A millisecond pause. Dance answered, “Oh, for some time.”
“Well, bless you. Stay happy.” The woman joined an elderly man leaving a gift shop. She took his arm and they headed toward a large tour bus, parked nearby.
Dance and O’Neil laughed. Then she noticed a silver Lexus pull up in a nearby parking lot. As the door opened, she was aware that O’Neil had eased away from her slightly, so that their arms no longer touched.
The deputy smiled and waved to his wife as she climbed from the Lexus.
Tall, blond Anne O’Neil, wearing a leather jacket, peasant blouse, long skirt and belt of dangly metal, smiled as she approached. “Hello, honey,” she said to O’Neil and hugged him, kissed his cheek. Her eyes lit on Dance. “Kathryn.”
“Hi, Anne. Welcome home.”
“The flight was awful. I got tied up at the gallery and didn’t make it in time to check my bag. I was right on the borderline.”
“I was in an interview,” O’Neil told her. “Kathryn picked up Tyler and Ammie.”
“Oh, thanks. Mike said you’ve closed the case. That one about the roadside crosses.”
“A few hours ago. Lot of paperwork, but, yeah, it’s done.” Not wanting to talk about it any longer, Dance said, “How’s the photo exhibition going?”
“Getting ready,” said Anne O’Neil, whose hair brought to mind the word “lioness.” “Curating’s more work than taking the pictures.”
“Which gallery?”
“Oh, just Gerry Mitchell’s. South of Market.” The tone was dismissive, but Dance guessed the gallery was well known. Whatever else, Anne never flaunted ego.
“Congratulations.”
“We’ll see what happens at the opening. Then there are the reviews afterward.” Her sleek face grew solemn. In a low voice: “I’m sorry about your mother, Kathryn. It’s all crazy. How’s she holding up?”
“Pretty upset.”
“It’s like a circus. The newspaper stories. It made the news up there.”
A hundred and thirty miles away? Well, Dance shouldn’t’ve been surprised. Not with the prosecutor Robert Harper playing the media game.
“We’ve got a good attorney.”
“If there’s anything I can do…” The ends of Anne’s metal belt tinkled like a wind chime in the breeze.
O’Neil called down to the beach, “Hey, guys, your mother’s here. Come on!”
“Can’t we stay, Dad?” Tyler pleaded.
“Nope. Time to get home. Come on.”
Reluctantly the children trudged toward the adults. Maggie was dispensing shells. Dance was sure she’d be giving the good ones to the O’Neil children and her brother.
Wes and Maggie piled into Dance’s Pathfinder for the short ride to the inn where her parents were staying. Once again, they’d spend the night with Edie and Stuart. The perp was dead, so the threat to her personally was gone, but Dance was adamant about finding Travis alive. She’d possibly be working late into the night.
They were halfway to the inn when Dance noticed that Wes had grown quiet.
“Hey, young man, what’s up?”
“Just wondering.”
Dance knew how to reel in details from reluctant children. The trick was patience. “About what?”
She was sure it had to do with his grandmother.
But it didn’t.
“Is Mr. Boling coming over again?”
“Jon? Why?”
“Just, The Matrix’s on TNT tomorrow. Maybe he hasn’t seen it.”
“I’ll bet he has.” Dance was always amused by the way children assumed that they’re the first to experience something and that prior generations lived in sorrowful ignorance and deprivation. Mostly, though, she was surprised that the boy had even asked the question. “You like Mr. Boling?” she ventured.
“No… I mean, he’s okay.”
Maggie contradicted, “You said you liked him! You said he was neat. As neat as Michael.”
“I did not.”
“Yes, you did!”