Solitude Creek (Kathryn Dance 4)

Out came the boys. Guitars were plugged in. The seat behind the trap set occupied. Ditto the keyboard.

The lead singer tossed his mass of hair aside and lifted an outstretched palm to the audience. The group's trademarked gesture. "Are we ready to get down?"

Howling.

"Well, are we?"

The guitar riffs started. Yes! The song was "Escape." Michelle and her daughter began to clap, along with the scores of others in the small space. The heat had increased, the humidity, the embracing scent of bodies. Claustrophobia notched up a bit. Still, Michelle smiled and laughed.

The pounding beat continued, bass, drum and the flesh of palms.

But then Michelle stopped clapping. Frowning, she looked around, cocking her head. What was that? The club, like everywhere in California, was supposed to be nonsmoking. But somebody, she was sure, had lit up. She definitely smelled smoke.

She looked around but saw no one with a cigarette in mouth.

"What?" Trish called, her eyes scanning her mother's troubled expression.

"Nothing," the woman replied and began clapping out the rhythm once again.

Chapter 2

At the third word into the second song--it happened to be love--Michelle Cooper knew something was wrong.

She smelled the smoke more strongly. And it wasn't cigarette smoke. Smoke from burning wood or paper.

Or the old, dry walls or flooring of a very congested roadhouse.

"Mom?" Trish was frowning, looking around too. Her pert nose twitched. "Is that..."

"Yeah, it is," Michelle whispered. She couldn't see any fumes but the smell was unmistakable and growing stronger. "We're leaving. Now." Michelle stood fast.

"Hey, lady," a man called, catching her stool and righting it. "You okay?" Then he frowned. "Jesus. Is that smoke?"

Others were looking around, smelling the same.

No one else in the venue, none of the hundred plus others--employees or patrons or musicians--existed. Michelle Cooper was getting her daughter out of here. Michelle steered her toward the nearest fire exit door.

"My purse," Trish said over the music. The Brighton bag, a present from Michelle, was hidden on the floor beneath the table--just to be safe. The girl broke away to retrieve the heart-embossed bag.

"Forget it, let's go!" her mother commanded.

"I'll just be..." the girl began and bent down.

"Trish! No! Leave it."

By now, a dozen people nearby, who'd seen Michelle's abrupt rise and lurch toward the exit, had stopped paying attention to the music and were looking around too. One by one they were also rising. Curious and troubled expressions on their faces. Smiles becoming frowns. Eyes narrowing. Something predatory, feral about the gazes.

Five or six oozed in between Michelle and her daughter, still rummaging for the purse. Michelle stepped forward fast and went for the girl's shoulder to pull her up. Hand gripped sweater. It stretched.

"Mom!" Trish pulled away.

It was then that a brilliant light came on, focused on the exit doors.

The music stopped abruptly. The lead singer called into the microphone, "Hey, uhm, guys, I don't know... Look, don't panic."

"Jesus, what's--" somebody beside Michelle shouted.

The screams began. Wails filled the venue, loud, nearly loud enough to shatter eardrums.