ON THE HIGHWAY to Salinas, not far from beautiful Laguna Seca race-course, Kathryn Dance braked her unmarked Ford to a halt in front of a construction worker holding a portable stop sign. Two large bulldozers slowly traversed the highway in front of her, shooting ruddy dust into the air. She was on the phone with Deputy David Reinhold, the young officer who’d delivered Tammy Foster’s computer to her and Boling. Rey Carraneo had sped to the MCSO Crime Scene Unit in Salinas and dropped Travis’s Dell off for processing into evidence. “I’ve logged it in,” Reinhold told her. “And run it for prints and other trace. Oh, and it probably wasn’t necessary, Agent Dance, but I ran a nitrate swab for explosives too.” Computers were occasionally booby-trapped—not as IED weapons, but to destroy compromising data contained in the files. “Good, Deputy.” The officer certainly had initiative. She recalled his quick blue eyes and his smart decision to pull out the battery of Tammy’s computer. “Some of the prints are Travis’s,” the young deputy said. “But there are others too. I ran them. A half dozen were from Samuel Brigham.” “The boy’s brother.” “Right. And a few others. No match in AIFIS. But I can tell you they’re larger, probably male.” Dance wondered if the boy’s father had tried to get inside. Reinhold said, “I’m happy to try to crack into the system, if you want. I’ve taken some courses.” “Appreciate it, but I’m having Jonathan Boling—you met him in my office—handle that.” “Sure, Agent Dance. Whatever you’d like. Where are you?” “I’m out now, but you can have it delivered to the CBI. Have Agent Scanlon take custody. He’ll sign the card and receipt.” “I’ll do it right now, Kathryn.” They disconnected and she looked around impatiently, waiting for the construction flagman to allow her through. She was surprised to see the area dug up so completely—dozens of trucks and road-grading equipment were tearing apart the ground. She’d driven here just last week and the work hadn’t yet begun. This was the big highway project that Chilton had written about in the blog, the shortcut to Highway 101, in the thread titled “Yellow Brick Road,” suggesting gold—and wondering if somebody was profiting illegally on the project. She noted that the equipment belonged to Clint Avery Construction, one of the largest companies on the Peninsula. The workers here were large men, working hard, sweaty. They were mostly white, which was unusual. Much of the labor on the Peninsula was performed by Latino workers. One of them looked at her solemnly—recognizing her car for an unmarked law enforcement vehicle—but he made no special effort to speed her through. Finally, at his leisure, he waved the traffic on, his eyes looking over Dance closely, it seemed to her. 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.” “At the party?” “Right. And he was totally ignoring me. Hanging out with this other girl, Brianna, rubbing her back, you know. Right in front of me. I wanted to make him jealous, so I walked up to Travis and was hanging out with him. I gave him my car keys right in front of Mike and asked him to take me home. I was, like, oh, let’s drop Trish and Vanessa off and then you and me can hang out.” “And you thought it would make Mike feel bad?” She nodded tearfully. “It was so stupid! But he was acting like such a shit, flirting with Brianna.” Her shoulders were arched in tension. “I shouldn’t’ve. But I was so hurt. If I hadn’t done that, nothing would’ve happened.” This explained why Travis had been driving that night. All to make another boy jealous. The girl’s explanation also suggested a whole new scenario. Maybe on the drive back Travis had realized that he was being used by Caitlin, or maybe he was angry at her for having a crush on Mike. Had he intentionally crashed the car? Murder/suicide—an impulsive gesture, not unheard of when it came to young love. “So he’s got to be mad at me.” “What I’m going to do is put an officer outside your house.” “Really?” “Sure. It’s still early at summer school, right? You don’t have any tests coming up, do you?” “No. We just started.” “Well, why don’t you head home now?” “You think?” “Yeah. And stay there until we find him.” Dance took down the girl’s address. “If you can think of anything more—about where he might be—please let me know.” “Sure.” The girl took Dance’s card. Together they walked back to her crew. FLOATING THROUGH HER ears was the haunting quena flute of Jorge Cumbo, with the South American group Urubamba. The music calmed her, and it was with some regret that Dance pulled into the Monterey Bay Hospital parking lot, parked and paused the music. Of the protesters, only about half remained. The Reverend Fisk and his redheaded bodyguard were absent. Probably trying to track down her mother. Dance walked inside. Several nurses and doctors came up to express their sympathy—two nurses wept openly when they saw their coworker’s daughter. She walked downstairs to the office of the head of security. The room was empty. She glanced up the hall toward the intensive care unit. She headed in that direction and pushed through the door. Dance blinked as she turned to the room where Juan Millar had died. It was cordoned off with yellow police tape. Signs read Do Not Enter. Crime Scene. It was Harper’s doing, she reflected angrily. This was idiocy. There were only five intensive care rooms down here—three were occupied—and the prosecutor had sealed one of them? What if two more patients were admitted? And what’s more, she thought, the crime had taken place nearly a month ago, the room occupied by presumably a dozen patients since then, not to mention cleaned by fastidious crews. There couldn’t possibly be more evidence to collect. Grandstanding and public relations. She started away. And nearly ran right into Juan Millar’s brother, Julio, the man who had attacked her earlier in the month. The dark, compact man, in a dark suit, pulled up short, eyes fixed on her. He was carrying a folder of papers, which sagged in his hand, as he stared at Dance, only four or five feet away. Dance tensed and stepped back slightly, to give her time to get to her pepper spray or cuffs. If he came at her again she was prepared to defend herself, though she could imagine what the media would do with the story of the daughter of a suspected mercy killer Macing the brother of the euthanized victim. But Julio simply stared at her with a curious look—not of anger or hate, but almost amusement at the coincidence of running into her. He whispered, “Your mother…how could she?” The words sounded rehearsed, as if he’d been waiting for the chance to recite them. Dance began to speak, but Julio clearly expected no response. He walked slowly out of the door that led to the back exit. And that was it. No harsh words, no threats, no violence. How could she? Her heart pounding furiously from the bewildering confrontation, she recalled that her mother had said Julio had been here earlier. Dance wondered why he was back now. With a last glance at the police tape, Dance left the ICU and walked to the office of the head of security. “Oh, Agent Dance,” Henry Bascomb said, blinking. She smiled a greeting. “They’ve got the room taped off?” “You were back there?” he asked. Dance immediately noted the stress in the man’s posture and voice. He was thinking quickly and he was uneasy. What was that about? Dance wondered. “Sealed off?” she repeated. “Yeah, that’s right, ma’am.” Ma’am? Dance nearly laughed at the formal word. She, O’Neil, Bascomb and some of his former deputy buddies had shared beer and quesadillas down on Fisherman’s Wharf a few months ago. She decided to get to the nut of it: “I’ve only got a minute or two, Henry. It’s about my mother’s case.” “How’s she doing?” Dance was thinking: I don’t know any better than you do, Henry. She said, “Not great.” “Give her my best.” “I’ll do that. Now, I’d like to see the employee and front desk logs of who was at the hospital when Juan died.” “Sure.” Only he didn’t mean sure at all. He meant what he said next: “But the thing is, I can’t.” “Why’s that, Henry?” “I’ve been told I can’t let you see anything. No paperwork. We’re not even supposed to be talking to you.” “Whose orders?” “The board,” Bascomb said tentatively. “And?” Dance continued, prodding. “Well, it was Mr. Harper, that prosecutor. He talked to the board. And the chief of staff.” “But that’s discoverable information. The defense attorney has a right to it.” “Oh, I know that. But he said that’s how you’ll have to get it.” “I don’t want to take it. Just look through it, Henry.” There was absolutely nothing illegal about her looking through the material, and it wouldn’t ultimately affect the case because what was contained in the logs and sign-in sheets would come out eventually. Bascomb’s face revealed how torn he was. “I understand. But I can’t. Not unless there’s a subpoena.” Harper had spoken to the security chief for one purpose only: to bully Dance and her family. “I’m sorry,” he said sheepishly. “No, that’s okay, Henry. Did he give you a reason?” “No.” He said this too quickly, and Dance could easily see eye aversion that differed from what she knew of the man’s baseline behavior. “What did he say, Henry?” A pause. She leaned toward him. The guard looked down. “He said…he said he didn’t trust you. And he didn’t like you.” Dance stoked her smile as best she could. “Well, that’s the good news, I suppose. He’s the last person in the world I’d want a thumbs-up from.” THE TIME WAS now 5:00 p.m. From the hospital lot, Dance called the office and learned there’d been no significant developments in the hunt for Travis Brigham. The Highway Patrol and sheriff’s office were running a manhunt, focusing on the traditional locales and sources for information about runaways and juvenile fugitives: his school and classmates and the shopping malls. That his transportation was limited to a bike was helpful, in theory, but hadn’t led to any sightings. Rey Carraneo had learned little from Travis’s rambling notes and drawings, but was still sifting through them for leads to the boy’s whereabouts. TJ was trying to track down the source of the mask, and calling the potential victims from the blog. Since Dance had learned from Caitlin that Travis liked the shore, she gave him the added task of contacting the parks department and alerting them that the boy might be hiding out somewhere in the thousands of square acres of state land in the area. “Okay, boss,” he said wearily, revealing not fatigue but the same hopelessness that she felt. She then spoke to Jon Boling. “I got the boy’s computer. That deputy dropped it off, Reinhold. He sure knows his stuff when it comes to computers.” “He shows initiative. He’ll go places. You having any luck?” “No. Travis is smart. He’s not relying on your basic password protection alone. He’s got some proprietary encryption programs that have locked his drive. We may not be able to crack it, but I’ve called an associate at school. If anybody can get inside, they can.” Hmm, Dance thought, how gender-neutral: “associate” and “they.” Dance translated the words as “young, gorgeous female grad student, probably blond and voluptuous.” Boling added in techspeak that a brute force attack was under way via an uplink to a supercomputer at UC-Santa Cruz. “The system might crack the code within the next hour—” “Really?” she asked brightly. “Or, I was going to say, within the next two or three hundred years. It depends.” Dance thanked him and told him to head home for the evening. He sounded disappointed and, after explaining that he had no plans for that night, said he’d continue to search for the names of posters who might be at risk. She then collected the children from Martine’s and they all drove to the inn where her parents were hiding out. As she drove, she was recalling the incidents surrounding young Juan Millar’s death, but in truth she hadn’t focused on them much at the time. The manhunt had demanded all her attention: Daniel Pell—the cult leader, killer and vicious manipulator—and his partner, a woman equally dangerous, had remained on the Peninsula after his escape, to stalk and murder new victims. Dance and O’Neil had worked nonstop pursuing them, and Juan Millar’s death had not occupied her thoughts, other than to engender a piercing remorse for the part, though small, she’d played in it. If she’d guessed that her mother might have become entwined in the case, she would have been much more attentive. Ten minutes later Dance parked the car in the gravel lot of the inn. Maggie offered, “Wow,” bouncing on the seat as she examined the place. “Yeah, neat.” Though Wes was more subdued. The quaint cottage—part of the luxurious Carmel Inn—was one of a dozen stand-alone cabins separate from the main building. “There’s a pool!” Maggie cried. “I want to go swimming.” “Sorry, I forgot your suits.” Dance nearly suggested Edie and Stuart could take them shopping for swimwear, but then recalled that her mother shouldn’t be out in public—not with Reverend Fisk and his birds of prey on the loose. “I’ll bring them by tomorrow. And, hey, Wes, there’s a tennis court. You can practice with Grandpa.” “Okay.” They climbed out, Dance collecting their suitcases, which she’d packed earlier. The children would be staying here tonight with their grandparents. They walked along the path bordered with vines and low, green chick-and-hen succulents. “Which one’s theirs?” Maggie asked, bouncing along the trail. Dance pointed it out and the girl launched herself forward fast. She hit the buzzer and a moment later, just as Dance and Wes arrived, the door opened and Edie smiled at her grandchildren and let them inside. “Grandma,” Maggie called. “This is cool!” “It’s very nice. Come on in.” Edie gave a smile to Dance, who tried to read it. But the expression was as informative as a blank page. Stuart hugged the children. Wes asked, “You okay, Grandma?” “I’m absolutely fine. How’re Martine and Steve?” “Okay,” the boy said. “The twins and I built a mountain out of pillows,” Maggie said. “With caves.” “You’ll have to tell me all about it.” Dance saw they had a visitor. Distinguished defense attorney George Sheedy rose and stepped forward, shaking Dance’s hand and saying hello in his basso profundo voice. A briefcase was open on the coffee table in the sitting area of the suite, and yellow pads and printouts sat in cluttered stacks. The lawyer said hello to the children. He was courteous, but from his posture and expression Dance could tell immediately that the conversation she’d interrupted was a hard one. Wes regarded Sheedy suspiciously. After Edie dispensed treats to the children, they headed outside to a playground. “Stay with your sister,” Dance commanded. “Okay. Come on,” the boy said to Maggie and, juggling juice boxes and cookies, they left. Dance glanced out the window and noted that she could see the playground from here. The pool was behind a locked gate. With children, you could never be too vigilant. Edie and Stuart returned to the couch. Three cups of coffee rested, largely untouched, on a low driftwood table. Her mother would have instinctively prepared them the moment Sheedy arrived. The lawyer asked about the case and the hunt for Travis Brigham. Dance gave sketchy answers—which, in fact, were the best she could offer. “And that girl, Kelley Morgan?” “Still unconscious, it seems.” Stuart shook his head. The subject of the Roadside Cross attacks was tucked away and Sheedy glanced at Edie and Stuart, eyebrow raised. Dance’s father said, “You can tell her. Go ahead. Everything.” Sheedy explained, “We’re tipping to what Harper’s game plan seems to be. He’s very conservative, he’s very religious and he’s on record as opposing the Death with Dignity Act.” The proposal cropped up every so often in California; it was a statute, like Oregon’s, that would allow physicians to assist people who wished to end their lives. Like abortion, it was a controversial topic and the pros and cons were highly polarized. Presently in California if somebody helped a person commit suicide, that assistance was considered a felony. “So he wants to make an example of Edie. The case isn’t about assisted suicide—your mother tells me that Juan was too badly injured to administer the drugs to himself. But Harper wants to send a message that the state will seek tough penalties against anybody who helps with a suicide. His meaning: Don’t support the law because DAs will be looking real closely at each case. One step out of line and doctors or anybody helping someone die will get prosecuted. Hard.” The distinguished voice continued grimly, speaking to Dance, “That means he’s not interested in plea bargains. He wants to go to trial and run a big, splashy, public relations–driven contest. Now, in this instance, because somebody killed Juan, that makes it murder.” “First degree,” Dance said. She knew the penal code the way some people knew the Joy of Cooking. Sheedy nodded. “Because it’s premeditated and Millar was a law enforcement officer.” “But not special circumstances,” Dance said, looking at her mother’s pale face. Special circumstances would allow for the death penalty. But for that punishment to apply, Millar would have had to’ve been on duty at the time he was killed. But Sheedy said, scoffing, “Believe it or not, he’s considering that.” “How? How can he possibly be?” Dance asked heatedly. “Because Millar was never officially signed out of his tour.” “He’s playing a technicality like that?” Dance snapped in disgust. “Is Harper mad?” Stuart muttered. “No, he’s driven and he’s self-righteous. Which is scarier than being mad. He’ll get better publicity with a capital case. And that’s what he wants. Don’t worry, there is no way you’d be convicted of special circumstance murder,” he said, turning toward Edie. “But I think he’s going to start there.” Still, Murder One was harrowing enough. That could mean twenty-five years in prison for Edie. The lawyer continued, “Now, for our defense, justification doesn’t apply, or mistake or self-defense. Ending the man’s pain and suffering would be relevant at sentencing. But if the jury believed you intended to end his life, however merciful your motive, they would have to find you guilty of first-degree murder.” “The defense, then,” Dance said, “is on the facts.” “Exactly. First, we attack the autopsy and the cause of death. The coroner’s conclusion was that Millar died because the morphine drip was open too far and that an antihistamine had been added to the solution. That led to respiratory, and then cardiac, failure. We’ll get experts to say that this was wrong. He died of natural causes as a result of the fire. The drugs were irrelevant. “Second, we assert that Edie didn’t do it at all. Somebody else administered the drugs either intentionally to kill him, or by mistake. We want to try to find people who might’ve been around—somebody who might’ve seen the killer. Or somebody who might be the killer. What about it, Edie? Was anybody near ICU around the time Juan died?” The woman replied, “There were some nurses down on that wing. But that was all. His family was gone. And there were no visitors.” “Well, I’ll keep looking into it.” Sheedy’s face was growing grave. “Now, we come to the big problem. The medication that was added to the IV was diphenhydramine.” “The antihistamine,” Edie said. “In the police raid on your house, they recovered a bottle of a brand-name version of diphenhydramine. The bottle was empty.” “What?” Stuart gasped. “It was found in the garage, hidden under some rags.” “Impossible.” “And a syringe with a small bit of dried morphine on it. The same brand of morphine that was in Juan Millar’s IV drip.” Edie muttered, “I didn’t put it there. Of course I didn’t.” “We know that, Mom.” The lawyer added, “Apparently no fingerprints or significant trace.” Dance said, “The perp planted it.” “Which is what we’ll try to prove. Either he or she intended to kill Millar, or did it by mistake. In either case, they hid the bottle and syringe in your garage to shift the blame.” Edie was frowning. She looked at her daughter. “Remember earlier in the month, just after Juan died, I told you I heard a noise outside. It was coming from the garage. I’ll bet somebody was there.” “That’s right,” Dance agreed, though she couldn’t actually recall it—the manhunt for Daniel Pell had occupied all her thoughts then. “Of course…” Dance fell silent. “What?” “Well, one thing we’ll have to work around. I’d stationed a deputy outside their house—for security. Harper will want to know why he didn’t see anything.” “Or,” Edie said, “we should find out if he did see the intruder.” “Right,” Dance said quickly. She gave Sheedy the name of the deputy. “I’ll check that out too.” He added, “The only other thing we have is a report that the patient told you, ‘Kill me.’ And you told several people that. There are witnesses.” “Right,” Edie said, sounding defensive, her eyes slipping to Dance. The agent suddenly had a terrible thought: Would she be called to testify against her mother? She felt physically ill at this idea. She said, “But she wouldn’t tell anybody that if she were really intent on killing somebody.” “True. But remember, Harper is going for splash. Not for logic. A quote like that…well, let’s hope Harper doesn’t find out about it.” He rose. “When I hear from the experts and get details of the autopsy report, I’ll let you know. Are there any questions?” Edie’s face revealed that, yes, she had about a thousand. But she merely shook her head. “It’s not hopeless, Edie. The evidence in the garage is troublesome but we’ll do the best we can with that.” Sheedy gathered up his papers, organized them and put them into his briefcase. He shook everyone’s hand and gave reassuring smiles to them all. Stuart saw him to the door, the floor creaking under his solid weight. Dance too rose. She said to her mother, “Are you sure the kids won’t be too much? I can take them back to Martine’s.” “No, no. I’ve been looking forward to seeing them.” She pulled on a sweater. “In fact, I think I’ll go outside and visit.” Dance briefly embraced her, feeling stiffness in her mother’s shoulders. For an awkward moment the women held each other’s eyes. Then Edie stepped outside. Dance hugged her father too. “Why don’t you come over for dinner tomorrow?” she asked him. “We’ll see.” “Really. It’d be good. For Mom. For you, everybody.” “I’ll talk to her about it.” Dance headed back to the office where she spent the next few hours coordinating stakeouts of the possible victims’ houses and of the Brighams’ residence, deploying the manpower as best she could. And running the frustratingly hopeless search for the boy, who was proving to be as invisible as the electrons making up the vicious messages that had sent him on his deadly quest. COMFORT. Pulling up to her house in Pacific Grove at 11:00 p.m., Dance felt a tiny shiver of relief. After this long, long day she was so glad to be home. The classic Victorian was dark green with gray banisters, shutters and trim—it was in the northwestern part of Pacific Grove; if the time of year, the wind and your attitude about leaning over a shaky railing coincided, you could see the ocean. Walking into the small entryway, she flicked the light on and locked the door behind her. The dogs charged up to greet her. Dylan, a black-and-tan German shepherd, and Patsy, a dainty flat-coat retriever. They were named respectively for the greatest folk-rock songwriter and for the greatest country-western vocalist in the past hundred years. Dance reviewed emails but there were no new developments in the case. In the kitchen, spacious but equipped with appliances from a different decade, she poured a glass of wine and foraged for some leftovers, settling on half a turkey sandwich that hadn’t been resident in the fridge for too long. She fed the dogs and then let them out into the back. But as she was about to return to her computer she jumped at the raucous fuss they made, barking and charging down the stairs. They did this sometimes when a squirrel or cat had had the poor judgment to come for a visit. But that was rare at this time of night. Dance set the wineglass down and, tapping the butt of her Glock, walked out onto the deck. She gasped. A cross lay on the ground about forty feet away from the house. No! Drawing the gun, she grabbed a flashlight, called the dogs to her and swept the beam into the backyard. It was a narrow space, but extended for fifty feet behind the house and was filled with monkey flowers, scrub oak and maple trees, asters, lupine, potato vines, clover and renegade grass. The only flora that did well here thrived on sandy soil and shade. She saw no one, though there were places where an intruder could remain hidden from the deck. Dance hurried down the stairs into the dimness and looked around at the dozen of unsettling shadows cast by branches rocking in the wind. Pausing, then moving slowly, her eyes on the paths and the dogs, which tracked around the yard, edgy, wary. Their tense gait and Dylan’s raised hackles were unsettling. She approached the corner of the yard slowly. Looking for movement, listening for footsteps. When she heard and saw no signs of an intruder, she shined the flashlight onto the ground. It seemed to be a cross, but up close Dance couldn’t tell if it had been left intentionally or been created by falling branches. It wasn’t bound with wire and there were no flowers. But the back gate was a few feet away, which, though locked, could easily have been vaulted by a seventeen-year-old boy. Travis Brigham, she recalled, knew her name. And could easily find where she lived. She walked in a slow circle around the cross. Were those footsteps beside it in the trampled grass? She couldn’t tell. The uncertainty was almost more troubling than if the cross had been left as a threat. Dance returned to the house, stuffing her weapon in the holster. She locked up and stepped into the living room, filled with furniture as mismatched as that in Travis Brigham’s house, but nicer and homier, no leather or chrome. Mostly overstuffed, upholstered in rusts and earth colors. All purchased during shopping trips with her late husband. Dropping onto the sofa, Dance noticed a missed call. She flipped eagerly to the log. It was from Jon Boling, not her mother. Boling was reporting that the “associate” had had no luck as yet with cracking the pass code. The supercomputer would be running all night, and he’d let Dance know the progress in the morning. Or, if she wanted, she could call back. He’d be up late. Dance debated about calling—felt an urge to—but then decided to keep the line free in case her mother called. She then phoned the MCSO, got the senior deputy on duty and requested a Crime Scene run to collect the cross. She told him where it was located. He said he’d get somebody there in the morning. She then showered; despite the steamy water, she kept shivering, as an unfortunately persistent image lodged in her thoughts: the mask from Kelley Morgan’s house, the black eyes, the sewn-shut mouth. When she climbed into bed, her Glock was three feet away, on the bedside table, unholstered and loaded with a full clip and one “in the bedroom”—the chamber. She closed her eyes but, as exhausted as she was, she couldn’t sleep. And it wasn’t the pursuit of Travis Brigham that was keeping her awake, nor the scare earlier. Not even the image of that damn mask. No, the source of her keen restlessness was a simple comment that kept looping over and over in her mind. Her mother’s response to Sheedy’s question about witnesses in the ICU the night that Juan Millar was killed. There were some nurses down on that wing. But that was all. His family was gone. And there were no visitors. Dance couldn’t recall for certain, but she was almost positive that when she’d mentioned the deputy’s death to her mother just after it happened, Edie had acted surprised by the news; she’d told her daughter that she’d been so busy on her own wing that she hadn’t gone down to the ICU that night. If Edie hadn’t been in intensive care that night, as she’d claimed, then how could she be so certain it was deserted?