She scrolled through all the threads, noting that new posts had appeared in nearly all of them. The latest contributors to the Reverend Fisk and the desalination threads were taking their respective causes seriously — and with intensifying anger. But none of their posts compared to the vicious comments in the “Roadside Crosses” thread, most of them unleashing undiluted fury at each other, as much as at Travis.
Some of them were curiously worded, some seemed to be probing for information, some seemed to be outright threats. She got the feeling that there were clues as to where Travis was hiding — possibly even tidbits of facts that might suggest whom he was going to attack next. Was Travis actually one of the posters, hiding behind a fake identity or the common pseudonym, “Anonymous”? She read the exchanges carefully and decided that perhaps there were clues, but the answer eluded her. Kathryn Dance, comfortable with analyzing the spoken word, could come to no solid conclusions as she read the frustratingly silent shouts and mutters.
Finally she logged off.
An email from Michael O’Neil arrived. He gave her the discouraging news that the immunity hearing in the J. Doe case had been pushed back to Friday. The prosecutor, Ernie Seybold, felt that the judge’s willingness to go along with the defense’s request for the extension was a bad sign. She grimaced at the news and was disappointed that he hadn’t called to give her the news over the phone. Neither had he mentioned anything about whether he and the children would come over tonight.
Dance began to organize the meal. She didn’t have much skill in the kitchen, as she was the first to admit. But she knew which stores had the most talented prepared-food departments; the meal would be fine.
Listening to the soft braying of a video game from Wes’s room, Maggie’s keyboard scales, Dance found herself staring into the backyard, recalling the image of her mother’s face yesterday afternoon, as her daughter deserted her to see about the second roadside cross.
Your mother will understand.
No, she won’t… .
Hovering over the containers of brisket, green beans, Caesar salad, salmon and twice-baked potatoes, Dance remembered that time three weeks ago — her mother standing in this very kitchen and reporting about Juan Millar in the ICU. With Edie’s face feeling his pain, she’d told her daughter what he’d whispered to her.
Kill me…
The doorbell now drew her from that disquieting thought.
She deduced who had arrived — most friends and family just climbed the back deck stairs and entered the kitchen without ringing or knocking. She opened the front door to see Jon Boling standing on the porch. He wore that now-familiar, comfortable smile and was juggling a small shopping bag and a large laptop case. He’d changed into black jeans and a dark striped collared shirt.
“Hi.”
He nodded and followed her into the kitchen.
The dogs bounded up. Boling crouched and hugged them as they double-teamed him.
“Okay, guys, outside!” Dance commanded. She flung Milk Bones out the back door and the dogs charged down the steps and into the backyard.
Boling stood, wiped his face from the licks and laughed. He reached into the shopping bag. “I decided to bring sugar for a hostess gift.”
“Sugar?”
“Two versions: fermented.” He extracted a bottle of Caymus Conundrum white wine.
“Nice.”
“And baked.” A bag of cookies emerged. “I remembered the way you looked at them in the office when your assistant was trying to fatten me up.”
“Caught that did you?” Dance laughed. “You’d be a good kinesic interviewer. We have to be observant.”
His eyes were excited, she could see. “Got something to show you. Can we sit down somewhere?”
She directed him into the living room, where Boling unpacked yet another laptop, a big one, a brand she didn’t recognize. “Irv did it,” he announced.
“Irv?”
“Irving Wepler, the associate I was telling you about. One of my grad students.”
So, not Bambi or Tiff.
“Everything on Travis’s laptop is in here now.”
He began typing. In an instant the screen came to life. Dance didn’t know computers could respond so quickly.
From the other room, Maggie hit a sour note on the keyboard.
“Sorry.” Dance winced.
“C sharp,” Boling said without looking up from the screen.
Dance was surprised. “You a musician?”
“No, no. But I have perfect pitch. Just a fluke. And I don’t know what to do with it. No musical talent whatsoever. Not like you.”
“Me?” She hadn’t told him her avocation.
A shrug. “Thought it might not be a bad idea to check you out. I didn’t expect you to have more Google hits as a songcatcher than a cop… . Oh, can I say cop?”
“So far it’s not a politically incorrect term.” Dance went on to explain that she was a failed folksinger but had found musical redemption in the project that she and Martine Christensen operated — a website called American Tunes, the name echoing Paul Simon’s evocative anthem to the country from the 1970s. The site was a lifesaver for Dance, who often had to dwell in some very dark places because of her work. There was nothing like music to pull her safely out of the minds of the criminals she pursued.
Although the common term was “songcatcher,” Dance told him, the job description was technically “folklorist.” Alan Lomax was the most famous — he’d roam the hinterland of America, collecting traditional music for the Library of Congress in the midtwentieth century. Dance too traveled around the country, when she could, to collect music, though not Lomax’s mountain, blues and bluegrass. Today’s homegrown American songs were African, Afro-pop, Cajun, Latino, Caribbean, Nova Scotian, East Indian and Asian.