Wes...
Playing cop, Wes.
Lord, lord... He might've been killed by Goldschmidt. A Beretta shotgun, O'Neil had reported. Those weapons are works of art, yes, but their purpose is to kill. And they make such fine work of it.
Releasing the wheel finally. Her palms cooled from the departing sweat.
Rehearsing what she'd say to her son. It was going to be a lengthy discussion.
Then, of course, her thoughts returned to what Michael O'Neil had said.
Look, as if what I just told you wasn't enough...
Well, isn't that always the case? The conversations you don't want to have, can't have, refuse to have...they happen on their own, and usually at the worst possible moments. She was still nearly paralyzed with dismay. Deep breath, a dozen more.
Dance finally climbed out of the Pathfinder and walked onto the porch, key out.
She didn't need to do a
ny unlatching, however. The door opened and Jon Boling stood before her, in jeans and a black polo shirt. She realized his hair was a little longer. It would have been that way for the past week, of course, and she thought: Something else I missed. Missed completely.
Well, it had been one hell of a week.
"Hey," he said.
They kissed and she walked inside.
A skitter of multiple feet behind her, claws that needed clipping. Some enthusiastic couch jumping and a few good-to-see-you rolls on the back. Dance did the obligatory, but forever comforting to all involved, canine head rubs.
"Wine?"
Good diagnosis.
A smile, a nod. She sloughed off her jacket and hooked it. Too tired even to search for a hanger.
He returned with the glasses. White for both of them. It'd be an unoaked Chardonnay that they'd discovered recently. Michael liked red. It was all he drank.
"The kids?"
"In their rooms. Wes came home about an hour ago. Didn't want to look at a program I'd hacked together. And that's a little weird. He's in his bedroom now. Seemed kind of moody."
Wonder why.
"Mags is in her room too. Been singing up a storm. Violin may be a thing of the past."
"Not bad outside, the temperature. Shall we?"
They wandered out to the Deck, brushed curly yellow leaves off the cushions of a couple of uneven wooden chairs. The Monterey Peninsula wasn't like the Midwest, no seasons really. Leaves fell at their leisure.
Dance eased down and sat back. Fog wafted past, bringing with it the smell of damp mulch, like tobacco, and the spice of eucalyptus. She remembered the time Maggie made an argument for getting a koala bear cub, citing the fact that there were plenty of leaves for it to eat in the neighborhood. "Won't cost us a thing!"
Dance hadn't bothered to marshal arguments. "No," she'd said.
Boling zipped up his sweater. "News did a story on March."
Dance had heard about it; she'd declined comment.
"Antioch March," Boling mused. "That's his real name?"