Jeffery Deaver - Roadside Crosses

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.