The wheel spun on.
Her mother, and the euthanasia case, now paused at the top. Though she’d asked Edie to call when they got back to the inn, she hadn’t. This hurt, but didn’t surprise, Dance.
Then the wheel spun again and the J. Doe case in Los Angeles paused at the apogee. What would come of the immunity hearing? Would it be delayed again? And the ultimate outcome? Ernie Seybold was good. But was he good enough?
Dance honestly didn’t know.
This musing in turn led to thoughts of Michael O’Neil. She understood there were reasons that he hadn’t been able to be here tonight. But his not calling? That was unusual.
The Other Case…
Dance laughed at the jealousy.
She occasionally tried to picture herself and O’Neil together, had he not been married to svelte and exotic Anne. On the one hand, it was too easy. They’d spent days together on cases, and the hours moved by seamlessly. The conversation flowed, the humor. Yet they also disagreed, sometimes to the point of anger. But she believed their passionate disagreements only added to what they had together.
Whatever that was.
Her thoughts wheeled on, unstoppable.
Click, click, click…
At least until they stopped at Professor Jonathan Boling.
And beside her the soft breathing became a soft rattle.
“Okay, that’s it,” Dance said, rolling onto her other side. “Patsy!”
The flat-coat retriever stopped snoring as she awoke and lifted her head off the pillow.
“On the floor,” Dance commanded.
The dog stood, assessed that no food or ball playing figured in the deal and leapt off the bed to join her companion, Dylan, on the shabby rug they used as a futon, leaving Dance once more alone in bed.
Jon Boling, she reflected. Then decided perhaps it was better not to spend much time on him.
Not just yet.
In any case, at that moment, her musings vanished as the mobile phone by the bed, sitting next to her weapon, trilled.
Instantly, she flipped the light on, shoved her glasses on her nose and laughed, seeing the Caller ID.
“Jon,” she said.
“Kathryn,” Boling said. “I’m sorry to call so late.”
“It’s okay. I wasn’t asleep. What’s up? Stryker?”
“No. But there’s something you have to see. The blog — The Chilton Report. You better go online now.”
IN HER SWEATS, the dogs nearby, Dance was sitting in the living room, all the lights off, though moonlight and a shaft of streetlight painted iridescent swatches of blue-white on the pine floor. Her Glock pressed against her spine, the heavy gun tugging down the limp elastic waistband of her sweats.
The computer finished its interminable loading of the software.
“Okay.”
He said, “Look over the latest posting of the blog.” He gave her the URL.
Http://www.thechiltonreport.com/html/june27update.html
She blinked in surprise. “What…?”
Bolling told her, “Travis hacked The Report. ”
“How?”
The professor gave a cold laugh. “He’s a teenager, that’s how.”
Dance shivered as she read. Travis had posted a message over the beginning of the June 27 blog. To the left was a crude drawing of the creature Qetzal from DimensionQuest. Around the eerie face, its lips sewn shut and bloody, were cryptic numbers and words. Beside it was a text posting in large, bold letters. It was even more troubling than the picture. Half English, half leetspeak.
I will OWN u all!
i = win, u = fail!!
u r d3ad
3v3ry 1 of u
— post3d by TravisDQ
She didn’t need a translator for this one.
Below this was another picture. The awkward color rendering showed a teenage girl or woman lying on her back, mouth open in a scream, as a hand plunged a sword into her chest. Blood spurted skyward.
“That picture… it’s disgusting, Jon.”
After a pause: “Kathryn,” he said in a soft voice. “Do you notice anything about it?”
As she studied the awkward drawing, Dance gave a gasp. The victim had brownish hair, pulled back in a ponytail, and was wearing a white blouse and black skirt. On her belt was a darkened area on the hip, which could have been a weapon holster. The outfit was similar to what Dance had been wearing when she’d met Travis yesterday.
“It’s me?” she whispered to Boling.
The professor said nothing.
Was the picture old, maybe a fantasy about the death of a girl or woman who’d slighted Travis somehow in the past?
Or had he drawn it today, despite the fact he was on the run from the police?
Dance had a chilling image of the boy, hovering over the paper with pencil and crayon, creating this crude depiction of a synth world death he hoped to make real.
THE WIND IS a persistent aspect of the Monterey Peninsula. Usually bracing, sometimes weak or tentative but never absent. Day and night, it churns the blue-gray ocean, which false to its name is never calm.
One of the windiest places for miles around is China Cove, at the south end of Point Lobos State Park. The chill, steady breath from the ocean numbs the skin of hikers, and picnics are a dicey proposition if paper plates and cups figure as the dishware. Seabirds here labor even to stay in place if they aim into the breeze.
Now, nearly midnight, the wind is fickle, surging and vanishing, and at its strongest, it kicks up towering gray spumes of seawater.
It rustles the scrub oak.
It bends the pine.
It flattens the grasses.
But one thing that’s immune to the wind tonight is a small artifact on the seaside shoulder of Highway 1.
It’s a cross, about two feet high and made of black branches. In the middle is a torn cardboard disk with tomorrow’s date penned in blue. Sitting at the base, weighted down by stones, is a bouquet of red roses. At times petals fly off and skitter across the highway. But the cross itself doesn’t flutter or bend. Clearly it was driven deep into the sandy dirt by the roadside with powerful blows, its creator adamant that it remain upright and visible for all to see.
THURSDAY
Chapter 25