She left the extensive roadwork behind and cruised down the highway and onto side streets until she came to Central Coast College, where summer session was under way. A student pointed out Caitlin Gardner sitting at a picnic bench with several other girls, who hovered around her protectively. Caitlin was pretty and blond and sported a ponytail. Tasteful studs and hoops decorated both ears. She resembled any one of the hundreds of coeds here.
After leaving the Brighams, Dance had called the Gardner house and learned from Caitlin’s mother that the girl was taking some college courses here for credit at Robert Louis Stevenson High, where she’d start her senior year in a few months.
Caitlin’s eyes, Dance noticed, were focused away and then her gaze shifted to Dance. Not knowing who she was — probably thinking she was another reporter — she began to gather her books. Two of the other girls followed their friend’s troubled eyes and rose in a phalanx to give cover so Caitlin could escape.
But they then noticed Dance’s body armor and weapon. And grew cautious, pausing.
“Caitlin,” Dance called.
The girl stopped.
Dance approached and showed her ID, introduced herself. “I’d like to talk to you.”
“She’s pretty tired,” a friend said.
“And upset.”
Dance smiled. To Caitlin she said, “I’m sure you are. But it’s important that I talk to you. If you don’t mind.”
“She shouldn’t even be in school, “another girl said. “But she’s taking classes out of respect to Trish and Vanessa.”
“That’s good of you.” Dance wondered how attending summer school honored the dead.
The curious icons of adolescents…
The first friend said firmly, “Caitlin’s, like, really, really—”
Dance turned to the frizzy-haired brunette, her personality brittle, lost the smile and said bluntly, “I’m speaking to Caitlin.”
The girl fell silent.
Caitlin mumbled, “I guess.”
“Come on over here,” Dance said pleasantly. Caitlin followed her across the lawn and they sat at another picnic table. She clutched her book bag to her chest and was looking around the campus nervously. Her foot bobbed and she tugged at an earlobe.
She appeared terrified, even more so than Tammy.
Dance tried to put her at ease. “So, summer school.”
“Yeah. My friends and me. Better than working, or sitting home.”
The last word has been delivered in a tone that suggested a fair amount of parental hassle.
“What’re you studying?”
“Chemistry and biology.”
“That’s a good way to ruin your summer.”
She laughed. “It’s not so bad. I’m kinda good at science.”
“Headed for med school?”
“I’m hoping.”
“Where?”
“Oh, I don’t know yet. Probably Berkeley undergrad. Then I’ll see.”
“I spent time up there. Great town.”
“Yeah? What’d you study?”
Dance smiled and said, “Music.”
In fact she hadn’t taken a single class on that campus of the University of California. She’d been a busker — a musician playing guitar and singing for money on the streets of Berkeley — very little money, in her case.
“So, how you doing with all of this?”
Caitlin’s eyes went flat. She muttered, “Not so great. I mean, it’s so terrible. The accident, that was one thing. But then, what happened to Tammy and Kelley… that was awful. How is she?”
“Kelley? We don’t know yet. Still in a coma.”
One of the friends had overheard and called, “Travis bought this poison gas online. Like from neo-Nazis.”
True? Or rumor?
Dance said, “Caitlin, he’s disappeared. He’s hiding somewhere and we have to find him before he causes more harm. How well did you know him?”
“Not too good. We had a class or two together. I’d see him in the halls sometimes. That’s all.”
Suddenly she started in panic and her eyes jumped to a nearby stand of bushes. A boy was pushing his way through them. He looked around, retrieved a football and then returned into the foliage for the field on the other side.
“Travis had a crush on you, right?” Dance pressed on.
“No!” she said. And Dance deduced that the girl did in fact think this; she could tell from the rise in the pitch of her voice, one of the few indicators of deception that can be read without the benefit of doing a prior baseline.
“Not just a little?”
“Maybe he did. But a lot of boys… You know what it’s like.” Her eyes did a sweep of Dance — meaning: boys might’ve had a crush on you too. Even if it was a long, long time ago.
“Did you two talk?”
“Sometimes about assignments. That’s all.”
“Did he ever mention anyplace he liked to hang out at?”
“Not really. Nothing, like, specific. He said there were some neat places he liked to go. Near the water, mostly. The shore reminded him of some places in this game he played.”
This was something, that he liked the ocean. He could be hiding out in one of the shorefront parks. Maybe Point Lobos. In this land of temperate climate he could easily survive with a waterproof sleeping bag.
“Does he have any friends he might be staying with?”
“Really, I don’t know him real well. But he didn’t have any friends I ever saw, not like my girlfriends and me. He was, like, online all the time. He was smart and everything. But he wasn’t into school. Even at lunch or study period, he’d just sit outside with his computer and if he could hack into a signal he’d go online.”
“Are you scared of him, Caitlin?”
“Well, yeah.” As if it was obvious.
“But you haven’t said anything bad about him on The Chilton Report or social networking sites, have you?”
“No.”
What was the girl so upset about? Dance couldn’t read her emotions, which were extreme. More than just fear. “Why haven’t you posted anything about him?”
“Like, I don’t go there. It’s bullshit.”
“Because you feel sorry for him.”
“Yeah.” Caitlin frantically played with one of the four studs in her left ear. “Because…”
“What?”
The girl was very upset now. Tension bursting. Tears dotted her eyes. She whispered, “Because it’s my fault what happened.”
“What do you mean?”
“The accident. It’s my fault.”
“Go on, Caitlin.”
“See, there was this guy at the party? A guy I kind of like. Mike D’Angelo.”