URS OF OPERA…

Sitting in Kathryn Dance’s office, alone now, Jonathan Boling was cruising through Travis Brigham’s computer, in a frantic pursuit of the meaning of the code. ours of opera…

He was sitting forward, typing fast, thinking that if Dance had been here, the kinesics expert within her could have drawn some fast conclusions from his posture and the focus of his eyes: He was a dog scenting prey.

Jon Boling was on to something.

Dance and the others were out at the moment, setting up surveillance. Boling had remained in her office to prowl through the boy’s computer. He’d found a clue and was now trying to locate more data that would let him crack the code. ours of opera…

What did it mean?

A curious aspect of computers is that these crazy plastic and metal boxes contain ghosts. A computer hard drive is like a network of secret passages and corridors, leading farther and farther into the architecture of computer memory. It’s possible—with considerable difficulty—to exorcise these hallways and rid them of the ghosts of data past, but usually most bits of information we’ve created or acquired remain forever, invisible and fragmented.

Boling was now wandering these hallways, using a program one of his students had hacked together, reading the scraps of data lodged in obscure places, like the wisps of souls inhabiting a haunted house.

Thinking of ghosts put him in mind of the DVD Kathryn Dance’s son had lent him last night. Ghost in the Shell. He reflected on the nice time he’d had at her house, how much he’d enjoyed meeting her friends and family. The children especially. Maggie was adorable and funny and would, he knew without a doubt, become a woman every bit as formidable as her mother. Wes was more laid-back. He was easy to talk to and brilliant. Boling often speculated about what his own children would have been like if he’d settled down with Cassie.

He thought of her now, hoped she was enjoying her life in China.

Recalled the weeks prior to her leaving.

And withdrew his generous wishes about contentment in Asia.

Then Boling put thoughts of Cassandra aside, and concentrated on his ghost hunt in the computer. He was getting close to something important in that shred of binary code that translated into the English letters ours of opera.

Boling’s puzzle-loving mind, which could often be counted on to come up with curious leaps of logic and insight, automatically concluded that those words were fragments of “hours of operation.” Travis had looked at that phrase online just before he’d vanished. The implication of this was that perhaps, just perhaps, these words referred to a location the boy was interested in.

But computers don’t store related data in the same place. The code for “ours of opera” might be found in a spooky closet in the basement, while the name of whatever they referred to could be in a hallway in the attic. Part of the physical address in one place, the rest in another. The brain of a computer is constantly making decisions about breaking up the data and storing bits and pieces in places that make sense to it but are incomprehensible to a layperson.

And so Boling was following the trail, strolling through the dark corridors filled with spooks.

He didn’t think he’d been this engaged in a project for months, maybe years. Jonathan Boling enjoyed university work. He was curious by nature and he liked the challenge of research and writing, the stimulating conversations with fellow faculty members and with his students, getting young people excited about learning. Seeing the eyes of a student inten sify suddenly when random facts coalesced into understanding was pure pleasure to him.

But at the moment, those satisfactions and victories seemed minor. Now, he was on a mission to save lives. And nothing else mattered to him but unlocking the code. ours of opera…

He looked at another storeroom in the haunted house. Nothing but jumbled bits and bytes. Another false lead.

More typing.

Nothing.

Boling stretched and a joint popped loudly. Come on, Travis, why were you interested in this place? What appealed to you about it?

And do you still go there? Does a friend work there? Do you buy something from its shelves, display cases, aisles?

Ten more minutes.

Give up?

No way.

Then he strolled into a new part of the haunted house. He blinked and gave a laugh. Like joining pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, the answer to the code “ours of opera” materialized.

As he gazed at the name of the place, its relationship to Travis Brigham was ridiculously obvious. The professor was angry at himself for not deducing it even without the digital clue. Looking up the address, he pulled his phone off his belt and called Kathryn Dance. It rang four times and went to voice mail.

He was about to leave a message, but then he looked at his notes. The place wasn’t far from where he was right now. No more than fifteen minutes.

He flipped the phone shut with a soft snap and stood, pulled on his jacket.

With an involuntary glance at the picture of Dance and her children, dogs front and center, he stepped out of her office and headed for the front door of the CBI.

Aware that what he was about to do was possibly a very bad idea, Jon Boling left the synth world to continue his quest in the real.

“IT’S CLEAR,” REY Carraneo told Kathryn Dance as he returned to the living room where she stood over Donald and Lily Hawken. Dance’s pistol was in her hand as she was looking vigilantly out the windows and into the rooms of the small house.

The couple, shaken and unsmiling, sat on a new couch, the factory plastic wrap still covering it.

Dance replaced her Glock. She hadn’t expected the boy to be inside—he’d been hiding in the side yard and had appeared to flee when the police arrived—but Travis’s expertise at the game of DimensionQuest, his skill at combat, made her wonder if the teenager had somehow seemed to escape but had actually slipped inside.

The door opened and massive Albert Stemple stuck his head in. “Nup. He’s gone.” The man was wheezing—both from the pursuit and from the residual effects of the gas at Kelley Morgan’s house. “Got the deputy lookin’ up and down the streets. And we got a half dozen more cars on the way. Somebody saw somebody in a hooded sweatshirt on a bicycle heading through the alleys, making for downtown. I called it in. But…” He shrugged. Then the bulky agent vanished and his boots clomped down the steps as he went to join in the manhunt.

Dance, Carraneo, Stemple and the MCSO deputy had arrived ten minutes ago. As they’d been meeting with likely targets, an idea had occurred to Dance. She thought about Jon Boling’s theory: that, expanding his targets, Travis might include people merely mentioned favorably in the blog, even if they hadn’t posted.

Dance had gone to the site once again and read through the blog’s homepage.!!!Http://www.thechiltonreport.com

One name that stood out was Donald Hawken, an old friend of James Chilton’s, who was mentioned in the “On the Home Front” section. Hawken might be the victim for whom Travis had left the cross on the windswept stretch of Highway 1.

So they’d driven to the man’s house, their purpose to get Hawken and his wife out of danger and set up surveillance at the house.

But upon arriving, Dance had seen a figure in a hood, possibly holding a gun, lurking in the bushes to the side of the ranch. She’d sent Albert Stemple and the MCSO deputy after the intruder, and Rey Carraneo, with Dance behind him, barged into the house, guns drawn, to protect Hawken and his wife.

They were still badly shaken; they’d assumed Carraneo was the killer when the plainclothes agent had burst through the door, his weapon high.

Dance’s Motorola crackled and she answered. It was Stemple again. “I’m in the backyard. Got a cross carved into this patch of dirt and rose petals scattered around it.”

“Roger that, Al.”

Lily closed her eyes, lowered her head to her husband’s shoulder.

Four or five minutes, Dance was thinking. If we’d gotten here just that much later, the couple would be dead.

“Why us?” Hawken asked. “We didn’t do anything to him. We didn’t post. We don’t even know him.”

Dance explained about the boy’s expanding his targets.

“You mean, anybody even mentioned in the blog’s at risk?”

“Seems that way.”

Dozens of police had descended on the area within minutes, but the calls coming in made clear that Travis was nowhere to be found.

How the hell does a kid on a bicycle get away? Dance thought, frustrated. He just vanishes. Where? Somebody’s basement? An abandoned construction site?

Outside, the first of the press cars were beginning to arrive, the vans with the dishes atop, the cameramen prodding their equipment to life.

About to stoke the panic in town that much hotter.

More police showed up too, including several bicycle patrol officers.

Dance now asked Hawken, “You still have your house in the San Diego area?”

Lily replied, “It’s on the market. Hasn’t sold yet.”

“I’d like you to go back there.”

“Well,” he said, “there’s no furniture. It’s in storage.”

“You have people you can stay with?”

“My parents. Donald’s children are staying with them now.”

“Then go back there until we find Travis.”

“I guess we could,” Lily said.

“You go,” Hawken said to her. “I’m not leaving Jim.”

“There’s nothing you can do to help him,” Dance said.

“There sure is. I can give him moral support. This is a terrible time. He needs friends.”

Dance continued, “I’m sure he appreciates your loyalty, but look at what just happened. That boy knows where you live and he obviously wants to hurt you.”

“You might catch him in a half hour.”

“We might not. I really have to insist, Mr. Hawken.”

The man showed a bit of businessman’s steel. “I won’t leave him.” Then the edge left his voice as he added, “I have to explain something.” The smallest of glances at his wife. A pause, then: “My first wife, Sarah, died a couple of years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

The dismissive shrug that Dance knew oh so well.

“Jim dropped everything; he was at my door within the hour. He stayed by me and the children for a week. Helped us and Sarah’s family with everything. Food, the funeral arrangements. He even took turns with the housework and laundry. I was paralyzed. I just couldn’t do anything. I think he might’ve saved my life back then. He certainly saved my sanity.”

Again Dance couldn’t suppress the memories of the months after her own spouse’s death—when Martine Christensen, much like Chilton, had been there for her. Dance would never have hurt herself, not with the children, but there were plenty of times when, yes, she thought she might go mad.

She understood Donald Hawken’s loyalty.

“I’m not leaving,” the man repeated firmly. “There’s no point in asking.” Then he hugged his wife. “But you go back. I want you to leave.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Lily said, “No, I’m staying with you.”

Dance noted the look. Adoration, contentment, resolve…Her own heart flipped as she thought, He lost his first spouse, recovered and found love again.

It can happen, Dance thought. See?

Then she closed the door on her own life.

“All right,” she agreed reluctantly. “But you’re leaving here right now. Find a hotel and stay there, stay out of sight. And we’re going to put a guard on you.”

“That’s fine.”

It was then that a car screeched to a stop in front of the house, a voice shouting in alarm. She and Carraneo stepped out onto the porch.

“S’okay,” Albert Stemple said, his voice a lazy drawl, minus the Southern accent. “Only Chilton.”

The blogger had apparently heard the news and hurried over. He raced up the steps. “What happened?” Dance was surprised to hear panic in his voice. She’d detected anger, pettiness, arrogance earlier, but never this sound. “Are they all right?”

“Fine,” she said. “Travis was here, but Donald’s fine. His wife too.”

“What happened?” The collar of the blogger’s jacket was askew.

Hawken and Lily stepped outside. “Jim!”

Chilton ran forward and embraced his friend. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes. The police got here in time.”

“Did you catch him?” Chilton asked.

“No,” Dance said, expecting Chilton to launch into criticism for their not capturing the boy. But he took her hand firmly and gripped it. “Thank you, thank you. You saved them. Thank you.”

She nodded awkwardly and released his hand. Then Chilton turned to Lily with a smile of curiosity.

Dance deduced that they’d never met before, not in person. Hawken introduced them now and Chilton gave Lily a warm embrace. “I’m so sorry about this. I never, not in a million years, thought it would affect you.”

“Who would have?” Hawken asked.

With a rueful smile, Chilton said to his friend, “With an introduction to the Monterey Peninsula like this, she’s not going to want to stay. She’s going to move back tomorrow.”

Lily finally cracked a fragile smile. “I would. Except we’ve already bought the drapes.” A nod at the house.

Chilton laughed. “She’s funny, Don. Why doesn’t she stay and you go back to San Diego?”

“Afraid you’re stuck with both of us.”

Chilton then grew serious. “You have to leave until this is over.”

Dance said, “I’ve been trying to talk them into that.”

“We’re not leaving.”

“Don—” Chilton began.

But Hawken laughed, nodding at Dance. “I have police permission. She agreed. We’re going to hide out in a hotel. Like Bonnie and Clyde.”

“But—”

“No buts, buddy. We’re here. You can’t get rid of us now.”

Chilton opened his mouth to object, but then noted Lily’s wry grin. She said, “You don’t want to be telling this girl what to do, Jim.”

The blogger gave another laugh and said, “Fair enough. Thank you. Get to a hotel. Stay there. In a day or two this’ll all be over with. Things’ll get back to normal.”

Hawken said, “I haven’t seen Pat and the boys since I left. Over three years.”

Dance eyed the blogger. Something else about him was different. Her impression was that she was seeing for the first time his human side, as if this near-tragedy had pulled him yet further from the synth world into the real.

The crusader was, at least temporarily, absent.

She left them to their reminiscences and walked around back. A voice from the bushes startled her. “Hello.”

She looked behind her to see the young deputy who’d been helping them out, David Reinhold.

“Deputy.”

He grinned. “Call me David. I heard he was here. You almost nailed him.”

“Close. Not close enough.”

He was carrying several battered metal suitcases, stenciled with MCSO—CSU on the side. “Sorry I couldn’t tell anything for certain about those branches in your backyard—that cross.”

“I couldn’t tell either. Probably it was just a fluke. If I trimmed the trees like I should, it never would’ve happened.”

His bright eyes glanced her way. “You have a nice house.”

“Thanks. Despite the messy backyard.”

“No. It’s real comfortable-looking.”

She asked the deputy, “And how ’bout you, David? You live in Monterey?”

“I did. Had a roommate, but he left, so I had to move to Marina.”

“Well, appreciate your efforts. I’ll put in a good word with Michael O’Neil.”

“Really, Kathryn? That’d be great.” He glowed.

Reinhold turned away and began cordoning off the backyard. Dance stared at what was in the center of the yellow tape trapezoid: the cross etched into the dirt and the sprinkling of petals.

From there, her eyes rose and took in the sweeping decline from the heights of Monterey down to the bay, where a sliver of water could be seen.

It was a panoramic view, beautiful.

But today it seemed as disturbing as the terrible mask of Qetzal, the demon in DimensionQuest.

You’re out there somewhere, Travis.

Where, where?