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Anger flashed in her wide eyes. “You don’t believe me. You never believe me!”
“I do believe you. I know you saw something and it chased you down to the creek and scared the hell out of you. Of course. But, I don’t know what it was or why. That’s all I’m saying.” Bianca
looked about to explode again, and Pescoli said, “I’m just thankful you’re okay.” To prove it, she hugged her daughter, and for once Bianca didn’t tense up at the gesture.
“Just scarred for life,” she grumbled as Pescoli released her. A finger with a now-broken nail tenderly touched her chin. “Jeremy came by my room a while ago. You were still sleeping, and . . . well, so was I, but he came in anyway and woke me up, said he heard about what happened up at the reservoir.”
“How?” Pescoli asked, as neither she nor Santana had woken him last night.
“On his iPad, I guess.”
“It’s out there? On social media?”
Of course.
Bianca stared at her mother as if she’d grown up during the time of Conestoga wagons. “Geez, Mom. What d’ya think?”
Kids. Cell phones. Instant messaging. Texting. Tweets. Her heart sank. These days, information passed in a nanosecond. One text, tweet, or post and the info, bad or good, was sent into cyberspace, passed along exponentially at the speed of light. Not good. Not good at all.
“Jeremy believes me. About Big Foot. He told me a lot of people around here believe in it. There’s even a group that meets and discusses Sasquatch in the old lodge building, the one that originally housed the Sons of Grizzly Falls, I think.”
“Yeah, I know.” There were nutcases who were a part of the group. Ivor Hicks, a man who believed he’d been abducted by lizard-like aliens for testing purposes, was one. Fred Nesmith, an anti-government nut, another. For that matter Lex Farnsby was probably a charter member.
“Alex O’Hara. He’s a part of it.”
“What about TJ?”
“He’s never said. Probably. But some of Jeremy’s friends are members and he says they put together these elaborate searches every year and go looking for them. Families of ’em or loners.”
“Have they found any?”
“I don’t know . . . maybe . . . well, maybe not. It would be really big news, if they had.”
Regan had made her point and wasn’t going to press it. Besides, she was already running late. Really late.
Cisco, toenails clicking on the hardwood of the hallway, appeared in the open doorway. The mottled little terrier peered inside, then, tail wagging wildly, ran into the room and launched himself onto Bianca’s bed, where he wriggled up to her and washed her face with his tongue.
“Enough,” she cried, but the little scrap of a dog had managed to bring a smile to her lips. “Geez, Cisco, give it a rest!” But she petted Cisco, not stopping as he nestled up against her.
Pescoli pushed herself to her feet. “Okay, gotta run. Please, don’t discuss anything about this or post about it or tweet or whatever. Okay? Until we’ve sorted out what happened to Destiny.”
“I think it’s too late.”
“Well, try.” Bianca was right, of course. For all Pescoli knew, the story on Big Foot and the dead girl could already be trending. Closing the barn door now would do little good.
Another text came in.
Bianca was already on it.
“Who’s texting you?”
“Lots of people.”
In her mind’s eye, Pescoli saw dozens of groups of kids, all with phones, all writing as rapidly as Bianca, misinformation and facts all twisted into multiple threads of conversation. That was how information was spread these days, instantaneously with the touch of a keypad, exponentially, with one phone linked to dozens and then again so that the conversations moved through the community like an insidious epidemic.
“Look, you can’t text or talk about the case. It could be compromised.”
Bianca looked up then, her eyes holding Pescoli’s. She didn’t say it, but the words too late silently passed between them. “Please, Bianca.”
