Solitude Creek by Jeffery Deaver Page A

pace.
    Somebody else growled, ‘Give me five minutes with him. I’ll get a confession.’
    ‘Fuck him up, I keep saying!’
    ‘You killed my daughter!’
    They were now thirty feet from the office door. The crowd had grown and were shouting insults. At least no more projectiles.
    Then one short, stocky man in jeans and a plaid shirt ran up to his prey and slugged Billy in the side of the head. He cried out.
    Dance displayed her shield. ‘You. Give me your name. Now!’
    He laughed cruelly, grabbed the badge and flung it away. ‘Fuck you, bitch.’
    She doubted that even a weapon brandished would have slowed them down. In any event she had no Glock to draw.
    ‘Fuck him up! Get him!’
    ‘Kill him.’
    ‘Her too, bitch!’
    These people were insane. Animals. Mad dogs.
    ‘Listen to me,’ Dance shouted. ‘You’re committing a felony! You will be arrested if you—’
    It was then that their control broke. ‘Get him. Now!’
    She glanced back to see several picking up rocks. One gripped another tire iron.
    Jesus.
    She ducked as a large stone zipped past her ear. She didn’t see who’d thrown it. She stumbled and ended up on her knees. The crowd surged forward.
    Billy yanked her to her feet and, hands over their heads, they sprinted for the office door. It was now closed. If Henderson had locked it, hell, they could very well be dead in a few minutes.
    Dance felt the full-on panic, an antelope hearing the rhythm of the lion’s paws moving closer and closer.
    The door …
    Please …
    Just as they arrived it swung open. Billy turned and this time a rock hit its target square. It slammed into the man’s jaw and he gave a sharp cry. Blood poured and it was obvious he’d lost a tooth or two and possibly a bone had broken.
    He stumbled inside and collapsed on the floor, gripping his mouth. Dance leapt in too. The door slammed shut and Henderson locked it.
    ‘I called nine one one,’ the office manager said.
    ‘I did too,’ Dance muttered, looking at Billy’s gash. ‘They should be here soon.’
    She peered out of the window, her hands shaking, heart pounding audibly.
    Panic …
    The crowd had ganged at the door. Their faces were possessed. She thought of the time when a crazed Doberman, off its leash, had charged her and her German shepherd, Dylan, on a walk. Only pepper spray had stopped it.
    No reasoning, no escaping.
    Dance grimaced, noting that Henderson was holding a revolver, a Smith & Wesson, short-barrel .38 Special. Gripped uneasily in his hand.
    ‘Put that away.’
    ‘But—’
    ‘Now,’ she snapped.
    He set the weapon back in its drawer.
    A rock smashed into the side of the office, a huge sound, thanks to the metal walls. Others. Two windows broke, though no one tried to climb in. More shouts.
    Dance looked at Billy, whose eyes were closed from the pain. He held a towel, filled with ice, against his swollen face. Henderson’s relative had brought it. It appeared that the jawbone was shattered.
    Looking out through a broken window Dance could see flashing blue-and-white lights.
    And, just like in the Solitude Creek video of last night, the madness vanished. The mob who’d been ready to lynch Billy and break Dance’s skull turned and were walking away, making for their own cars, as if nothing had happened.
    Fast, so fast. As quickly as they’d become enraged they’d calmed. The possession was over with. She noted several of them drop the rocks they held; it seemed some of them hadn’t even realized they were holding the weapons.
    Squad cars from the MCSO eased to a stop in front of Henderson Jobbing. Two sheriff’s deputies from the vehicle closest to the office surveyed the scene around them and walked inside.
    ‘Kathryn,’ said the woman deputy, a tall, striking Latina. The other, a squat African American, nodded to her. She knew both of them well.
    ‘Kit, John.’
    ‘The hell happened?’ Kit asked.
    Dance explained about the mob. She added, ‘You could probably get a few collars for