В сердце большого города скрываются тайны и загадки. Каждое утро открывает новый слой этой истории, напоминая о безвозвратности прошлого. Внутренние драмы и судьбы, переплетающиеся в пространстве и времени, создают непредсказуемую атмосферу будничной мелодрамы.
The leather shroud girl was older.
Angie Robinson disappeared in 1985. She was almost fifteen. Unlike Pomerleau, she’s never turned up.
The actors became shadowbox puppets. The dialogue and laugh track receded to background.
Angie Robinson broke her wrist. The leather shroud girl broke her wrist. But their ages don’t match. Neither do their heights.
What was I missing?
Angie Robinson disappeared in north-central California. I couldn’t remember the name of the place. Conners? Corners? Cornero?
Was that Butte County?
No.
Menard spent at least a year in Chico. But which Menard? The real one?
Angie Robinson’s father filed his MP report with the Tehama County Sheriff’s Department.
Throwing back the covers, I got up, booted my computer, logged onto Yahoo!, and asked for a map of north-central California.
Tehama County lay directly northwest of Butte. I found Chico, and almost directly above it, the little village of Corning.
I zoomed in on the region.
Towns and secondary highways appeared.
I clicked on an arrow, moved north.
Red Bluff.
The thought lurking in my subconscious lumbered toward focus, receded.
Red Bluff.
What?
Think, Brennan. Think.
The most minuscule atom of an idea sparked.
When had Red Bluff been in the news?
Ten years ago? Twenty?
Why?
Think!
I got up and killed the TV. Tossing the remote, I paced the room, desperate to get into the backcountry of my subconscious.
Silence filled the condo. Not the comforting, I’m-alone-enjoying-my-solitude kind.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
Red Bluff. Red Bluff.
Finally, a neural pathway fired. I froze.
Dear God! Was that it?
I flew to the computer.
Who was that victim?
Using multiple search engines, most of which sent me through infuriating, labyrinthine back alley cyberloops, I finally found the name.
More searching.
Archives of the Red Bluff Daily News.
Archives of the Chico Examiner.
The normal sounds of night receded to the edge of my hearing.
Hours later, I sat back, numb with the horror of what I was unraveling.
I understood what was going on.
30
I LASTED UNTIL SEVEN A.M. BEFORE PHONING RYAN. HE ANSWERED quickly, sounding alert but tired.
“Am I waking you?”
“I had to get up anyway to answer the phone.”
“Old joke, Ryan.”
“You sound wired. What’s up?”
I laid out my theory and told him what I’d discovered in my cyber research.
“Holy shit.
