Jeffery Deaver - Solitude Creek

‘What kind of SUV was it?’

‘Oh, it was a Nissan Pathfinder. Gray. And the reason he didn’t steal anything was that it had to be a police car. It had flashing blue lights on the dashboard.’

O’Neil froze. He scooted back in his chair. No! Oh, hell. The unsub had been through Dance’s car. He’d gotten her ID, knew where she lived. Had followed her. And had seen her and Jon Boling together. That was how he’d known to target Boling, tamper with his bike. And—

Another thought hit him. Dance had told him she’d had flyers about the event in her vehicle. The unsub could easily have seen them.

A school auditorium. A perfect venue for an attack.

He grabbed his phone and called Central Dispatch.

‘Hello?’

‘Sharon. Michael O’Neil. There’s a possible two-four-five in progress at Pacific Hills Grade School. PG. Have units roll up silent. I’m going to get more info and I’ll advise through you.’

‘Roger. I’ll get ’em rolling. And await further.’

They disconnected.

How to handle it? If he ordered an evacuation and the unsub had locked the doors already, that might result in the very stampede and crush that O’Neil had to avoid.

Or was it even too late to do anything?

He’d call Dance and warn her. She could see if there was a way to get the parents and children out quietly before the unsub made a move.

O’Neil grabbed his mobile and hit speed-dial button one.

Wes and Jon Boling were chowing down on green-room goodies.

Not like at Madison Square Garden or MGM Grand where, Dance suspected, Dom Pérignon and caviar were the fare backstage. This was Ritz crackers, Doritos, juice boxes and milk (the school, like Dance’s house, was a soda-free zone).

Then the audience grew silent: the show was about to get under way. Boling whispered they were going to find their seats and he and Wes left.

Dance remained, looking over her daughter as they stood together, near the entrance to the stage. Maggie gazed out at the audience, probably two hundred people.

Her poor face was taut, unhappy.

Dance’s phone grew busy: it was on mute but she felt the vibration. She’d get it in a minute. She was now concentrating on her daughter. ‘Maggie?’

The child looked up. She seemed about to cry.

What on earth was going on? Weeks of angst about the performance. A roller-coaster of emotion.

And then Dance made a sudden shift. She moved from mom to law enforcer. That had been her mistake, looking at her daughter’s plight. Dance had been viewing the discomfort as a question of nerves, of typical pre-adolescent distress. In fact, she should have been looking at the whole matter as a crime. She should have been thinking of plots, motives, modi operandi .

A to B to Z...

She knew instantly what was going on. So clear. All the pieces were there. She just hadn’t thought to put them together. Now she understood the truth: her daughter was being extorted.

By Bethany and the Secrets Club...

Dance guessed that Bethany, so polite on the surface, was an expert at subtle bullying, using secrets as weapons. To join the club, you had to share a secret, something embarrassing: a wet bed, stolen money, a broken vase at home, a lie to a parent or teacher, something sexual. Then Bethany and her crew would have leverage to get the members of the club to do what they wanted.

Maggie’s reluctance to perform was obvious now. She wasn’t going to sing ‘Let It Go’ at all. The girls in the club had probably forced her to learn a very different song, maybe something off-color, embarrassing — maybe ridiculing Mrs Bendix, their teacher, a wonderful woman but heavyset, a careless dresser. An easy target for juvenile cruelty.

Dance recalled that when she’d agreed that Maggie didn’t have to appear at the show, her daughter had been so relieved: Mom would back her up against the club. But comfort hadn’t lasted long. The recent call from Bethany had been an ominous reminder that, whatever her mother had agreed to, Maggie was going to sing.

Or her secret would be revealed.

She was furious. Dance found her palms sweating. Those little bitches...

Her phone buzzed again. She ignored it once more.

She put her arm around Maggie’s shoulders. ‘Honey, let’s talk for a minute.’

‘I—’

‘Let’s talk.’ A smile.

They walked to the back of the green-room area. From there they could see one of Maggie’s classmates, Amy Grantham, performing a dance scene from The Nutcracker . She was good. Dance looked out at the audience. She saw her parents, sitting in the center, with Wes and Boling now near them, a jacket draped over the chair reserved for her.

She turned back to her daughter.

Dance had decided. Maggie was not going perform. No question. Whatever the secret was, she’d have her tell her now. Revealing it would defuse their power over her.

Anyway, how terrible could a ten-year-old’s indiscretion possibly be?

Another tremble of her phone.

Three times. She’d ignored it long it enough. She tugged her phone from its holster. Not a call: it was a text. From Michael O’Neil.

She read it, noting that it was in all caps.

Well. Hmm.

‘What’s wrong, Mom?’

‘Just a second, honey.’

She hit speed-dial button number one.

Click.

‘Kathryn! You saw my text?’

‘I—’

‘The unsub went through your Pathfinder. At the Bay View Center. We’ve got to assume he knows about Maggie’s concert. I have a team on the way. We don’t know what he has planned but you have to evacuate the school. Only keep it quiet. Check all the exits — they’re probably wired shut or something.’ This was more than Michael O’Neil usually said in half an hour. ‘So, you’ve got to see if Maintenance has wire cutters. But it’s got to be subtle. If you can start getting people out—’

‘Michael.’

‘It’s seven twenty, so following his profile, he could attack at any time. He waits for the show to start and—’

‘It’s outside.’

‘I... What?’

‘The show? Maggie’s concert? We’re on the soccer field behind the school. We’re not in the gym or the assembly hall.’

‘Oh. Outside.’

‘No risk of confinement. Stampede.’

‘No.’

‘Even the green room — it’s just a curtained-off area outside.’

‘You’re outside,’ he repeated.

‘Right. But thanks.’

‘Well... Good.’ After a pause he said, ‘And tell Maggie good luck. I wish I could be there.’

‘Night, Michael.’

They disconnected.

Outside...

The relief in his voice had been so dramatic, it was nearly comical.

Then she turned her attention back to her daughter.

‘Honey, Mags... Listen. I need you to tell me something. Whatever it is, it’s fine.’

‘Huh?’

‘I know why you’re upset.’

‘I’m not upset.’ Maggie looked down at her crisp, shiny dress and smoothed it. One of her better kinesic tells.

‘I think you are. You’re not happy about performing.’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘There’s something else. Tell me.’

‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘Listen to me. We love each other and sometimes it’s not good enough for people who love each other to say that. They have to talk. Tell me the truth. Why don’t you want to sing?’

Maybe, Dance wondered, the Secrets Club and queen bitch Bethany were forcing her daughter to throw a pie at the teacher or a water balloon. Even worse? She thought of Stephen King’s Carrie , drenching the girl in blood onstage.

‘Honey?’ Dance said softly.

Maggie looked at her, then away and gasped, ‘It’s terrible.’