The adults congregated around the large picnic table on the Deck.
This was the social center of the house--indeed of the lives of many people Dance knew, family and friends. The twenty-by-thirty-foot expanse, extending from the kitchen of Dance's house into the backyard, was populated by mismatched lawn chairs, loungers and tables. Christmas lights, some amber globes, up-lights, a sink and a large refrigerator were the main decorations. Some planters too, though the flowers struggled. In the backyard, you could find scrub oak and maple trees, grasses, monkey flowers, asters, lupine, potato vines and clover. Some veggies tried to survive but the slugs were merciless.
The Deck had been the site of hundreds of parties, big ones and small ones, and quiet family meals or cocoa nights, just the four of them. Then, more recently, the three. Her husband had proposed to her here, and Dance had eulogized him in virtually the same spot.
The evening was dank so Dance cranked up the propane heater, which exhaled cozy air. The adults sat around the table and had wine or juice or water and talked about...well, everything. That was one enduring quality of the Deck. Any topic was fair game. And it was here that all of the town's, state's, country's and world's problems were solved, over and over.
Martine asked, lowering her voice, "You heard about Solitude Creek?"
"I'm working it," Dance said.
"No!"
"Katie," her father said. "Be careful." As parents would do.
Steve said, "That driver? Who left the truck blocking the doors? He'll go down. Jail time. The company'll be out of business, the trucking company."
Dance said, "It's not for public consumption yet. Please don't say anything." She didn't bother to wait for nods of agreement. "It wasn't the truck driver. And it wasn't an accident."
"How do you mean?" Martine asked.
"We're still looking into it but somebody got into the truck and drove it against the doors to block them. Then started a fire nearby to send everybody into a panic." A glance to make sure the children were out of hearing. "And everybody sure did. The injured and dead were trampled and crushed or suffocated. There was blood everywhere."
"What's the motive?" Boling asked.
"That's a mystery. We find that out and we can track suspects. But so far, nothing."
"Revenge?" Steven speculated.
"Always a good one. But no patrons or employees or competitors stand out."
Martine said, "I'm claustrophobic. I can't imagine what it would be like to be trapped in a crowd like that."
Stuart Dance brushed a hand through his tempestuous hair. "I don't think I ever told you, Katie, but I saw a stampede once. Human, I mean. It was terribl
e."
"What?"
"You may have heard about it. Hillsborough, in Sheffield, England? Twenty-five years ago. I still have nightmares. Do you want to hear about it?"
Dance noted the children were out of earshot. "Go ahead, Dad."
Chapter 16
He was sure they'd die.
Some of them, at least.
Antioch March was on the turbulent shoreline in Pacific Grove, near Asilomar, the conference center. Off Sunset Drive.
March had been doing reconnaissance for tomorrow's "event" and was driving back to his room at the Cedar Hills Inn when he'd spotted them.
Ah, yes...
He'd pulled over.
And then wandered to an outcropping of rock, from which he would have a good view of the unfolding tragedy.