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, killing you is heroic. Travis? Who knows what he's thinking? Just remember it's possible that attacking a cyberbully like Tammy Foster meant no more to him than swatting a fly."
Dance considered this and said to O'Neil, "Do we go talk to him or not?"
Deciding when to initially interview a suspect was always tricky. Travis would probably not yet think he was a suspect. Speaking to him now would catch him off guard and might make him blurt out statements that could be used against him; he might even confess. On the other hand, he could destroy evidence or flee.
Debating.
What finally decided it for her was a simple memory. The look in Tammy Foster's eyes--the fear of reprisal. And the fear that the perp would attack someone else.
She knew they had to move fast.
"Yep. Let's go see him."
Chapter 10
THE BRIGHAM FAMILY lived in a scabby bungalow whose yard was strewn with car parts and old appliances, half dismantled. Green garbage bags, out of which flowed trash and rotting leaves, sat amid broken toys and tools. A scruffy cat stared cautiously out from a nest of vines beneath an overgrown hedgerow. It was too lazy or full to care about a pudgy gray rat that skittered past. O'Neil parked in the gravel drive, forty feet or so away from the house, and he and Dance climbed out of his unmarked MCSO car.
They studied the area.
It was like a scene from the rural South, vegetation thick, no other houses in sight, dereliction. The debilitated state of the house and the pungent aroma suggesting a nearby, and inefficient, sewer or a swamp explained how the family could afford such secluded property in this high-priced part of the state.
As they started toward the house she found her hand dangling near her pistol butt, her jacket unbuttoned.
She was spooked, alert.
Still, it was a shock when the boy attacked them.
They had just passed a patch of anemic, reedy grass beside the lopsided detached garage when she turned to O'Neil and found the deputy stiffen as he looked past her. His arm rose and gripped her jacket, pulling her forward to the ground.
"Michael!" she cried.
The rock sailed over her head, missing her by inches, and crashed through a garage window. Another followed a moment later. O'Neil had to duck fast to avoid getting hit. He crashed into a narrow tree.
"You all right?" he asked quickly.
A nod. "You see where it was from?"
"No."
They were scanning the thicket of woods bordering the property.
"There!" she called, pointing at the boy, in sweats and a stocking cap, who was staring at them. He turned and fled.
Dance debated only a moment. Neither of them had radios; this hadn't been planned as a tactical mission. And to return to O'Neil's car to call in a pursuit to Dispatch would have taken too long. They had a chance to catch Travis now and instinctively they went after him, sprinting forward.
CBI agents learn basic hand-to-hand combat skills--though most, Dance included, had never been in a fistfight. They also are required to have physical fitness checkups every so often. Dance was in fair shape, though not thanks to the CBI's regimen but to her treks into the wilderness to track down music for her website. Despite the impractical outfit--black skirt suit and blouse--she now eased ahead of Michael O'Neil as they pushed fast into the woods in pursuit of the boy.
Who was moving just a little faster.
O'Neil had his cell phone out and was breathlessly calling in a request for backup.
They were both gasping hard and Dance wondered how Dispatch could understand him.
The boy vanished for a moment and the officers slowed. Then Dance cried, "Look," spotting him emerge from bushes about fifty feet away. "Weapon?" she gasped. He held something dark in his hand.
"Can't tell."
Could have been a gun, though maybe a pipe or a knife.
