‘Others?’
‘Not related to what happened here. It was a rant by somebody named Ahmed. He said this is what Islam will do to the West, that sort of thing. Didn’t take credit for it exactly but we should check it out.’
‘What other incidents?’
‘Some foreign. A beheading of Christians in Iraq, a car bomb outside of Paris. A train wreck in New York, derailment. And then another stampede – a few years ago in Fort Worth. A nightclub.’
‘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.