Solitude Creek

by Jeffery Deaver

  The Asian family was now prowling the rocks, getting closer and closer to the end of the bulwark that stretched forty feet into the ocean, two yards above the agitated water. The rosy light from the low sun hit them full.

  Beautiful.

  He slipped the Galaxy S5 mobile phone from his pocket and began shooting video of the scene around him. Just another tourist. Nothing odd about him, catching the beautiful, rugged scenery in high-def pixels.

  A huge crash of water and the spray must have tickled the children. They seemed to giggle. The father gestured them to go some feet closer to the end. He aimed his Nikon and shot.

  Grandmother remained on the trail, some distance. Mother was about twenty feet behind her husband and children. March noticed she was calling. But the roar of the ocean on this windy evening was loud. The man probably couldn't hear.

  Another huge wave, exploding on the gray-and-brown rocks. For a moment the children weren't visible. He glanced at the screen and saw a rainbow in the angled sunlight.

  Then there were the children once more, oblivious, looking down at the water as their father directed them closer yet to the terminus point of the rocks.

  March now noted that out to sea a large wave was gaining strength.

  The lens of his camera app was pointed their way but his concentration wasn't on the video he was taking. He was looking at the swelling wave.

  Fifty yards, forty.

  Water travels fast even though it is, of course, the largest moving thing on earth. And this behemoth began to race.

  Closer, closer, come on...

  March's palms sweated. His gut thudded as he thought: Please, I want this...

  Thirty yards.

  The wave beginning to sharpen into a peak at the crest, God's palm to slap the family to their deaths.

  Twenty-five yards.

  Twenty...

  It was then that the mother had had enough. She charged forward, unsteady on the slippery rocks, and stepped in front of her husband, who gestured angrily with his hands.

  Would her husband ignore her? Stand up to the bitch, March thought. Please.

  Fifteen yards away, that huge swell of water.

  His breathing was coming fast. Just thirty more seconds. That's all I need.

  But the woman stepped stridently past her husband, her face dark, and strode up to her children.

  Ten...

  She took them by the hands and, raging at them too, dragged the bewildered youngsters back toward the trail. The husband followed, his face blank.

  The wave struck the rocks and inundated the spot where the children had been standing seconds before. It had plenty of energy to sweep father and children into the water. Even more frustrating, March judged from the angle, they would have been slammed into the rocks just in front of him, then sucked into a churning mass of ocean nearby.

  He lowered the phone.

  The parents and children, their backs turned to the rocks, hadn't seen the dramatic detonation of fiery water. Only the grandmother had. She said nothing but swiveled arthritically and followed her brood along the path.

  March sighed. He was angry. One last glance at the foolish, oblivious family. He found his teeth jammed together.

  The hollowness within him spread, like water melting salt.

  Somebody's not happy... Not happy at all.

  He climbed into the car and started the engine. He'd return to the Cedar Hills Inn and continue his plans for the next event in the Monterey area. It would be even better than Solitude Creek. He had another task too, of course. In this business you had to be beyond cautious. Part of that was learning who was hunting for you.

  And figuring out how best to avoid them.

  Or, even better, stop them before they grew into a full-blown threat. Whatever it took.

  Chapter 17

  None of those on Kathryn Dance's Deck had heard of the disaster in Sheffield, England.

  Stuart Dance was now explaining. "I was in London as a research fellow."

  Dance said, "I remember. Mom and I came over to see you. I was seven or eight."

  "That's right. But this was before you got there. I was in Nottingham, lecturing, and the postdoc I was working with suggested we go to Sheffield to see a game at Hillsborough Stadium. You know football--soccer--fans can be pretty intense in Europe so they would host the association semifinals in neutral venues to avoid fights. It was Nottingham--my associate's team, of course--versus Liverpool. We took the train up. My friend had some money--I think his father was a Sir Somebody or Another--and got good seats. What happened wasn't near us. But we could see it. Oh, my, we could see."

  Dance grew alarmed to see her father's face grow pale and his eyes dart. He was only glancing toward the children, to confirm they weren't close, but it seemed that his gaze was hollow, reflecting the horror he was experiencing at these memories.

  "It seems that just as the game was about to start, Liverpool fans were clustering at the turnstiles and were agitated, afraid they wouldn't get in. Pushing forward. Someone opened an exit gate to relieve the pressure and fans surged inside and made their way to a standing-room pen. The crush was terrible. Ninety-five, ninety-six people died there."

  "God," Steve muttered.

  "Worst sports disaster in UK history." Nearly whispering now. "Horrible. Fans trying to climb on top of everyone else, people jumping over the wall. One minute alive, then snuffed out. I don't know how they died. I guess suffocation."

  "Compressive asphyxia, they call it," Dance said.

  Stuart nodded. "It all happened so fast. Ridiculously fast. Kickoff was at three. At three-oh-six they stopped the game but almost everybody who died was dead at that point."

  Dance recalled that the deaths at the Solitude Creek roadhouse, though fewer, had taken about the same amount of time.

  Stuart added, "And you know what was the scariest? Together, all those people became something else. Not human."

  It was like they weren't people at all; it was just one big creature, staggering around, squeezing toward the doors...

  Stuart continued, "It reminded me of something else I saw. When I was on a job in Australia. I--"

  "We're hungry!" Wes called, and he and Donnie charged the table. Several of the adults jumped at the sudden intrusion, coming in the midst of the terrible story.

  "Then let's eat," Dance said, secretly relieved to change the subject. "Get your sister and the twins."

  "Maggie!" Wes shouted.

  "Wes. Go get your sister."

  "She heard. She's coming."

  A moment later the other youngsters arrived, accompanied by the dogs, ever optimistic at the possibility a klutzy human would drop a bit of dinner.

  As Dance, Maggie and Boling set the table, she told those assembled that her friend, country crossover singer Kayleigh Towne, who lived in Fresno, had sent her and the children tickets to the Neil Hartman concert taking place next Monday.

  "No!" Martine hit her playfully on the arm. "The new Dylan? It's been sold out for months."

  Probably not the new Dylan but a brilliant singer-songwriter, and ace musician too, with a talented backup band. The gig here in town had been scheduled before the young man's Grammy nomination. The small Monterey Performing Arts Center had sold out instantly after that.

  Dance and Martine had a long history and music informed it. They'd met at a concert that was a direct descendant of the famed Monterey Pop Festival, where the "original Dylan"--Bob--had made his West Coast debut in '65. The women had become friends and formed a nonprofit website to promote indigenous musical talent. Dance, a folklorist by hobby--song catcher--would travel around the state, occasionally farther afield, with an expensive portable recorder, collect songs and tunes, and then sell them on the site, keeping only enough money to maintain the server and pay expenses and then remitting the profits to the performers.

  The site was called American Tunes, an homage to the great Paul Simon song from the seventies.

  Boling brought the f
ood out, opened more wine. The kids sat at a table of their own, though right next to the adults' picnic bench. None of them asked to watch TV during the meal, which pleased Dance. Donnie was a natural comedian. He told joke after joke--all appropriate--that kept the younger kids in stitches.

  Conversation reeled throughout dinner. When the meal wound down and Boling was serving Keurig coffee, decaf and cocoa, Martine cracked open her guitar and took out the beautiful old Martin 00-18. She and Dance sang a few songs--Richard Thompson, Kayleigh Towne, Rosanne Cash, Pete Seeger, Mary Chapin Carpenter and, of course, Dylan.

  Martine called, "Hey, Maggie, your mom told me you're singing 'Let It Go' at your talent show."

  "Yeah."

  "You liked Frozen?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "The twins loved it. Actually we loved it too. Come on, sing it. I'll back you up."

  "Oh. No, that's okay."

  "Love to hear it, honey," Stuart Dance encouraged his granddaughter.

  Martine told everyone, "She has a beautiful voice."

  But the girl said, "Yeah, it's that I don't remember the words yet."

  Boling said, "Mags, you sang it all the way through today. A dozen times. I heard you in your room. And the lyric book was in the living room with me."

  A hesitation. "Oh, I remember. The DVD was on and they had the, you know, the words at the bottom of the screen."

  She was lying, Dance could easily see. If she knew anything, it was her own children's kinesic baseline. What was this about? Dance reflected that Maggie had seemed more shy and moody in the past day or two. That morning, as the girl tipped her mother's braid with the colorful elastic tie, Dance had tried to draw her out. Her husband's death had seemed to hit Wes hardest at first but now he seemed better, much better, about the loss; perhaps now Maggie was feeling the impact? But the girl had denied it--denied, in fact, that anything was bothering her.

  "Well, that's okay," Martine said. "Next time." And she sang a few more folk tunes, then packed up the guitar.

  Martine and Steven took some leftovers that Boling had bagged for them. Everyone said good-bye, hugs and kisses, and headed out the door, leaving Boling alone with Dance and the older boys. Wes and Donnie were now texting friends as they sat around their complicated board game, gazing at it intensely. At their phone screens too.

  Ah, the enthusiasm of youth...

  "Thanks for the food, everything," Dance told him.

  "You look tired," Boling told her. He was infinitely supportive but he lived in a very different world from hers and she was reluctant to share too much about her impossible line of work. Still, she owed him honesty. "I am. It's a mess. Not Serrano so much as Solitude Creek. That somebody'd do that on purpose. It just doesn't make sense. It's not like any case I've ever worked. It's already exhausting."

  She hadn't told him about the run-in with the mob outside of Henderson Jobbing. And chose not to now. She was still spooked--and sore--from the encounter. And, to be honest to herself, just didn't want to relive it. She could hear the rock shattering Billy Culp's jaw. And see the animal eyes of the mob as it bore down on them.

  Fuck you, bitch...

  The doorbell rang.

  Boling frowned.

  Dance hesitated. Then: "Oh, that'd be Michael. He's running Solitude Creek with me. Didn't I tell you he was coming over?"

  "I don't think so."

  "Been a crazy day, sorry."

  "No worries."

  She opened the door and Michael O'Neil walked inside.

  "Hey, Michael."

  "Jon." The men shook hands.

  "Have some food. Greek. Got plenty left."

  "No thanks."

  "Come on," Boling persisted. "Kathryn can't eat moussaka for a week."

  She noted that he didn't say "We can't eat moussaka," though he might have. But Boling wasn't a chest-thumping territory staker.

  O'Neil said, "Sure, it's not too much trouble."

  "Wine?"

  "Beer."

  "Done."

  Boling prepared a plate and passed him a Corona. O'Neil lifted the bottle in thanks, then hung his sports jacket on a hook. He rarely wore a uniform and tonight was in khaki slacks and a light gray shirt. He sat on a kitchen chair, adjusting his Glock.

  Dance had known and worked with O'Neil for years. The chief deputy and senior detective for the Monterey County Sheriff's Office had been a mentor when Dance had joined the Bureau; her background wasn't law enforcement. She'd been a for-hire kinesics expert, helping attorneys and prosecutors pick juries and providing expert testimony. After her husband's death--Bill Swenson had been an FBI agent--she'd decided to become a cop.

  O'Neil had been with the MCSO for years and, with his intelligence and dogged nature (not to mention enviable arrest and conviction record), he could have gone anywhere but he chose to stay local. O'Neil's home was the Monterey Peninsula and he had no desire to be anywhere else. Family kept him close and so did the bay. He loved boats and fishing. He could easily have been a protagonist in a John Steinbeck novel: quiet, solid of build, strong arms, brown eyes beneath dipping lids. His hair was thick and cut short, brown with abundant gray.

  He waved to Wes.

  "Hey, Michael!"

  Donnie too turned. The boy exhibited the fascination youngsters always did with the armament on the hip of a law officer. He whispered something to Wes, who nodded with a smile, and they turned their attention to the game. O'Neil asked to say hello to Maggie but apparently the girl had vanished into her room.

  O'Neil took the plate, ate some. "Thanks. Okay, this is excellent."

  They tapped bottle and glasses. Dance wasn't hungry but gave in to a few bits of pita with tzatziki.

  She said, "I didn't know if you could make it tonight. With the kids." O'Neil had two children from a prior marriage, Amanda and Tyler, nine and ten. They were good friends with Dance's youngsters--though Maggie more, because of the age proximity.

  "Somebody's watching them," he said.

  "New sitter?"

  "Sort of."

  Footsteps approached. It was Donnie Verso. He nodded to O'Neil and said to Dance, "Um, I really better be getting home. I didn't know it was this late."

  Boling said, "I'll drive you."

  "The thing is I've got my bike. I can't leave it, you know."

  "I've got a rack on the back."

  "Excellent!" He looked relieved. Dance believed the bike was new, probably a present for his birthday a few weeks ago. "Thanks, Mr. Boling. 'Night, Mrs. Dance."

  "Anytime, Donnie."

  Boling got his jacket and kissed Dance. She leaned into him, ever so slightly.

  The boys bumped fists. "Later," Wes called and headed for his room.

  Boling shook O'Neil's hand. "'Night."

  "Take care."

  The door closed. Dance watched Boling and Donnie walk to the car. She believed Jon Boling looked back to see her wave but she couldn't tell for certain.

  Chapter 18

  After checking on the kids ("Teeth!" "No texting!") Dance joined O'Neil on the Deck. He was finishing up the food. He glanced at her and said, "All right. Solitude Creek. You're sure you want to handle it this way?"

  She sat beside him. "How do you mean?"

  "You're Civ-Div?"

  "Right."

  "No weapon?"

  "Nope. Busted down to rookie. I'll be, quote, 'briefing' on the roadhouse case. I boosted that up to 'advising' then did an end run and--"

  "And blustered your way into running it."

  She'd been smiling at her joke but, at his interruption, it faded. "Well, with you."

  "Look, I'm happy to handle it solo." O'Neil shrugged.

  "No, I want it."

  A pause. O'Neil said, "This unsub. I profile he's armed. Or could be. You think?"

  It was fairly easy to do a preliminary profiling of an unknown subject. One of the easiest determinations was an affinity to commit a crime with a weapon.

  "Probably. He's not going into a situation like
this clean."

  He shrugged.

  She said, "You'll look out for me."

  O'Neil grimaced. He almost said something, which she suspected was, I can't babysit.

  Her level gaze told him, though, she wasn't going to be a spectator. She was going to run the case shoulder to shoulder with him. He nodded. "Okay, then that's the way it is."

  Dance asked, "What do you have going on? Busy now?"

  "A couple of cases is all. You hear about Otto Grant?"

  "Sounds familiar."

  "Sixty-year-old farmer, Salinas Valley. The state took a big chunk of his property, eminent domain. The farm had been in his family for years and he had to sell off the rest for taxes. He was furious about it. He's gone missing."

  "That's right." Dance recalled the HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN? posters around town. There were two images. One of a man, smiling at the camera, sitting beside his Labrador retriever. The other showed him with hair askew, looking a bit of a crank. He resembled the great actor Bruce Dern in Nebraska. "It's sad," she said.

  "Is, yes. He was writing these blogs trashing the state for what they did. But they stopped a few days ago and he's disappeared. His family thinks he's killed himself. I suppose that's it. No point in kidnapping a man who doesn't have any money. I've got a team out trying to find him. Or his body."

  O'Neil offered another grimace. "Then there're the hate crimes. That's on my plate too."

  Dance knew this story. Everybody in town did. Over the past few weeks, vandals had defaced buildings associated with minorities. They'd tagged an African American church with graffiti of the KKK and a burning cross. Then a gay couple's house had been tagged with GET AIDS AND DIE. Latinos had been targeted too.

  "Who do you think? Neo-Nazis?"

  Such groups were rare in the Monterey area. But not unheard of.

  "Closest are some biker and redneck white social clubs in Salinas and Seaside. Fits their worldview but graffiti's not their MO. They tend to bust heads in bars. I've talked to a few of them. They were actually insulted I was accusing them."

  "Guess there are degrees of bigotry."

  "Amy Grabe's considering sending a team down. But for now it's mine."