Alex is at the wheel, dodging in and out of traffic. The campus is sixteen miles away. Bree has her laptop open and keeps up a running commentary on what she’s learning.
“I’ve gone back through all the emails and texts Damon sent us as well as his social media for the past three months,” she says. “All pretty normal. Classes. Basketball. Tutoring. Dates with Melissa. A few protest activities, complaints about the weather—”
“Tell me more about the protest activities,” says Alex, gripping the wheel tight. “What were those about?”
Growing up with an activist great-grandmother and a father inlaw enforcement, Damon had been warned to be careful when confronting authority. Alex has tried to be realistic but not alarmist in reminding his children that all it takes is one traffic stop with a jittery cop. But he’s proud of Damon’s activism. Standing up against racism and injustice is a Cross family tradition.
Bree scrolls through the entries, pausing along the way to speed-read. “So far, I see three. Two protests were about the killing of a Black grandmother in Caldwell. A local SWAT team raided her home, thinking it was a meth lab, but they had the wrong address. And, let’s see … the other one was a protest against a right-wing extremist group called the YFF.”
Alex glances over at his wife. “You think maybe Damon made himself too visible? He’s a damn good public speaker, and when he believes in something, he puts it right out there. Maybe he made some noise around the wrong people.”
“Watch your speed,” says Bree, looking up from her screen. “We don’t want to get pulled over.”
“I hear you,” says Alex, but he presses harder on the pedal. “Anything else?”
“Not that I can see. But you’re right that saying the right thing in the wrong place can be dangerous these days.” She turns to the window.
Alex looks over. “What? What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking about Maestro. Wondering if maybe he’s coming for our family again.”
Alex’s gut churns. Maestro was a madman. He’d tried to murder them both and had treated John Sampson brutally after the death of his wife, Billie. Over the years, Maestro had killed scores of people, rationalizing his actions as vigilante justice.
Could he have done something to Damon?
“Last time we spoke,” says Alex, “Maestro claimed he was dying. It sure sounded like he was.”
“The bastard might’ve recovered,” says Bree. “Or maybe one of his well-trained believers picked up his bloody torch. That sort of thing’s been known to happen.”
Alex checks the GPS. They’re about ten minutes from the building that houses campus security. “Speaking of emails—”
“You’re cc’d on all the ones I got from him,” says Bree. “Do you have some from Damon that I didn’t see?”
“I’m not thinking about Damon’s emails,” Alex says. “I’m wondering about Melissa.” He swerves around a Piggly Wiggly semitruck. “Maybe she was the one who got involved in something that made them both targets?”
“We’d need a warrant to check Melissa’s emails,” says Bree.
Alex shakes his head. “We don’t have the time.”
Bree looks at him. “Bluestone, right?”
“Only if you can do it quietly, without a forensics trail and without getting yourself or anyone else in trouble.”
“Other times I’d say hell no, but these aren’t other times.”
“And let’s contact Ned Mahoney,” says Alex. “You know he’ll do whatever he can to help us out.”
Mahoney is both a good friend and a trusted contact of theirs at the FBI.
They ride on in silence for a few moments. Bree taps on her laptop, then sits up straight. “Oh, shit!”
Alex glances over. “What is it?”
Bree relays the alert on her screen. “Breaking news from MSNBC. Looks like a car bomb went off this morning in DC, near the intersection of Thirteenth and N Street. Multiple casualties.”
Alex flinches. Their hometown, brutally attacked again! If he were here for any other reason than to find Damon, he would throw the Camry into an illegal U-turn, head back to the airport, and jump on the first flight to DC.
But Alex stays the course and says to Bree, “You know what this means.”
