Howard put his hand up to stop him. “There’s some kind off major panic in Los Angeles. I have a call into the L.A. Times trying to check on the story. Homeland Security is trying to cover it up, it seems. They’re not letting the media report it. There’s a news blackout. I want to break the story here. I have to wait until I get more details, but I think we’ll run it in tomorrow’s paper. I want you to help me with the cover-up angle. I’ve got Garzarelli working the phones with some other local papers. I’ve had him call the Chronicle and the Sacramento Bee, to see what they have on the story.”

“You mean another riot?” Miles said. “Another Rodney King thing?”

“No. Different. I got call from my brother this morning while you were at Genesoft. He’s a fireman, a captain in L.A. County.”

The phone rang and Price’s secretary told him it was his call into the Times. Price took it on the speakerphone. “Jim?”

“Howard, I got your message.”

“You’re on a speakerphone, it’s two of us here. My reporter Miles Hunt and myself,” Howard said. He was looking at the phone as if it would jump off the table.

“This is all off the record,” the Times editor said.

“Fine,” Price said.

“Yes, your brother is right. There is a news blackout.”

“What’s going on? My brother said it’s some kind of major panic,” Price said. “Some kind of illness?”

“No one knows for sure what it is. People are disappearing, that’s all I know for sure. Whole buildings full of people come up missing for work. The police are working with only about forty percent staff, probably less. We’ve been able to confirm that part of the story. And it’s the lack of police that’s prompted the news blackout from Homeland. The Times is cooperating with their request, at least for the time being.”

“I don’t understand,” Price said. “You said disappear? What do you mean, exactly?”

“We’re not sure. But I know a lot of the staff here at the Times are missing too, probably over half.”

Howard looked at Miles.

“We can’t contact them,” the Times editor said. “We’ve called their homes, but either no one’s there, or their families can’t find them. We’re getting a lot of reports of people seeing their loved ones on the street and them not recognizing family members. And worse stories, too. This is what the mayor’s office and Homeland don’t want reported.”

“What do you mean worse?” Price said, looking away from Miles.

“Gangs of people roaming the streets attacking people. No one in the office has seen it for themselves, but we got a call from our office in the San Fernando Valley that a gang of people, about a hundred or so, attacked a fast-food place. Killed everyone in the place. The story hasn’t been confirmed. The ABC affiliate has a helicopter capturing footage of other gangs of people on the streets of the Valley. They’re threatening to go live with it.”

“Gangsters?” Price said.

“No, that’s just it—not gangsters. Ordinary people,” the editor said. “People are making a connection between the missing and these attacks.”

“I’m sorry, Jim, but I can’t believe this. It sounds ludicrous,” Price said.

“I know. I don’t believe it, either. But that’s what we’ve heard. And these types of reports are coming in now from all over L.A. County. The boss is in a meeting right now with people from the Mayor’s office and Homeland Security.”

“We have missing people here, too,” Price said. “I mean at the newspaper, here.”

“A lot?” his friend asked.

“If you count the delivery people, about twenty or so,” Price said. “We employ fewer than a hundred people.”

“All right, you see? I’ve been calling around town, to different businesses, big and small. Everyone is saying the same things. People aren’t showing up for work. They call them at home and there’s no answer, or their families say they’ve gone missing in the last day or so. We’re hearing the same story again and again,” the Times editor said.

“I’m going to break the missing-people story. No one’s told us not to,” Price said.

“I doubt the government cares about the little papers. They’re targeting big mass-media outlets. The Daily News has something up on its website, and so does La Opinion. And some of the independent radio stations are reporting this. But it’s not on TV yet. Homeland Security’s blacked out TV, local and national, the whole nine yards. Listen, I have to go. Good luck. Call me back and I’ll let you know if anything changes. Howard, good luck.”

A dial tone came from the speakerphone. Price, hitting a button on the phone, hung up too.

“Half the people at Genesoft are missing,” Miles said.

Price looked at him. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to cover the local story, then. We’ll run two stories, side by side. The Los Angeles story, and our own Nevada City and surrounding community’s missing-persons story,” Howard said.

They looked at each other as if for reassurance that the other had heard the same tone of fear in the man’s voice, which had somehow given the outrageous story he told credibility.

“Start with Timberline, and some of the other smaller Sierra towns. Call the sheriff’s department and get a report on all recent missing persons. We’ll build our local story around those. Contact the families of the first ten people on the list. We’ll have to edit the stories ourselves,” Price said. “Everyone on the copy desk is gone.”

Miles turned around and looked into the small city room. It seemed like a Sunday afternoon, not a Friday afternoon when their city room was its busiest.

“What do you think is going on?” Miles asked.

“Something bad. Something very bad,” Howard said, and picked up the phone. “Maybe the biggest story of the century. And here I am stuck up here in the sticks with you.”

If it had been a big-city newspaper, Miles would not have had the sheriff’s personal cell number. Because it was Timberline, he did. He went to his desk and dialed Quentin’s cell. Like all the old Timberline families, the Colliers and the Hunts kept in touch. In fact, they were close: Miles’ brother had married into the Collier family.

He got the message option on Quentin’s cell number, hung up and called the sheriff’s department’s main line.

“Sheriff’s office,” a woman’s voice answered.

“Yes, can I speak to Quentin, please?”

“He’s not in right now. Would you like to leave a message?”

“Is this Eileen?”

“Yes.”

“Eileen, this is Miles Hunt.”

“Hello, Miles. I thought it sounded like you. Can you hold a moment?”

“Sure.”

Miles sat looking at the pile of the random papers on his desk. He saw a message from his fiancée in San Francisco and tucked it into his pants pocket. There was another from the whistleblower at Genesoft. He’d told her to call him as soon as she got any more news. He’d made a date with her, for later in the day, to interview her boyfriend.

Miles looked at his watch and kept waiting. He cradled the phone’s receiver with his shoulder and took out the message from his fiancée. A cold panic filled him. She was in San Francisco at a fashion show and buying trip for the new store she was planning to open in Nevada City after they were married. If something was going on ... He punched in his girlfriend’s cell number on a different line.

“Room 1222, please ... Hello, Becky?”

“Miles. I was just leaving. Hi.”

The panic in Miles’ stomach eased. He saw his soon-to-be bride. She was a trim brunette with blue eyes and a knock-out smile. They’d met at Cal Berkeley while both students.

“I wanted to ask if my mother had gotten hold of you? She had a list of questions about the guest list. She doesn’t want to make any mistakes with your people. I thought you—”