Solitude Creek (Kathryn Dance 4)

He made coffee from the pot and used the powdered creamer. Breakfast was included but he certainly wouldn't go to the common room, where others might see him. The description of the man who had "allegedly" caused the Solitude Creek tragedy did not include his face. But he thought it best to be cautious. He sipped the pungent brew and turned on the TV.

March finished packing. He dumped the coffee out, wiped away fingerprints throughout the place using a sanitizer wipe (plain cloth doesn't work). He stepped outside into the clear, cool air. Gazing around, at the oak and brush, the brown hills, the lot and highway for anyone watching him, any threats.

None.

Then he slipped into the car, which was parked in the back. Toggle the power. Blue wire to the bundle.

The car started.

Then he was on the road again, piloting the cigarette-smoke-scented Chevy Malibu, heading south.

Two hours later he was in Orange County, closing in on the apartment of the man who'd posted the bizarre Vidster rant by someone named, or nicknamed, Ahmed, linking the Solitude Creek incident and several other mass tragedies to fundamentalist Islamist terror.

And putting Antioch March in a spotlight he could not afford to be in.

Chapter 38

After the autobot had alerted March to the video last night, he'd called in some favors to find the address of the poster. It was in Tustin, a pleasant nondescript suburb in the heart of Orange County. He now passed a lot of stores, lot of restaurants, strip malls, modest homes.

March found Ahmed's apartment, in a quiet residential area, and parked the Chevy Malibu four blocks away, in front of an empty storefront. No security cameras to record the tag number--or him, though he was at the moment largely unrecognizable. The workman's beige jacket was a thick one for this hot Southern California weather and he was sweating under it and the baseball cap. But nothing to do about that. He was used to being physically uncomfortable on the job. The Get always put you through your paces.

Especially irritating were the flesh-colored cotton gloves.

He supposed too he was upset that he had to make the trip in the first place. He longed to be back in Monterey. He didn't want Kathryn Dance's reprieve to last much longer.

But when your profession is death you need to be willing to do what's necessary to protect yourself. Be patient, he told the Get. We'll return to our dear Kathryn in due time.

March clicked the toggle off, climbed out and pulled on black-framed glasses with fake lenses. Looked at his reflection in the window.

Porn star meets Mad Men...

Then he snagged his gym bag from the backseat. No key, so he had to leave the car unlocked. This didn't, however, seem like a place where car theft was a big risk. Again, no choice.

Then, head down, he walked an indirect route to the one-story, ranch-style apartment complex.

In the courtyard, he paused. Another glance around. No security videos. No one visible. He stepped up to ground-floor apartment 236, listened. Faint music came from inside. Pop music.

He set down the gym bag, reached into his pocket with his right hand, gripping the gun, and with his left rapped on the door. "Excuse me?"

The music went down. "Who's there?"

"Your neighbor." He stood directly in front of the peephole to prove he was white. And therefore no threat. It seemed like that sort of neighborhood.

The chain, then the latch.

The man inside could be big. Dangerous. And armed.

The door opened. Hm. Ahmed was indeed big, yes, but mostly fat. Pear-shaped. He was also probably not an Ahmed since he was as Anglo as they came. About forty, curly hair. A goatee, shaved head. And a dozen tats, the biggest of which were the American flag and an eagle.

No gun, though one would have looked right at home on his belt.

"Which unit you from?" he asked.

March shoved his Glock into the man's thick chest. Pushed him back into the room.

"Fuck. No. What is this?"

"Shhh." March frisked him. Then collected the gym bag, closed and latched the door behind him.