Roadside Crosses

Chapter 25

Kathryn Dance, TJ Scanlon and Jon Boling were in her office. The time was 9:00 a.m. and they'd been there for close to two hours.

Chilton had removed Travis's threat and the two pictures from the thread.

But Boling had downloaded them and made copies. u r d3ad.

3v3ry 1 of u.

And the pictures, too.

Jon Boling said, "It might be possible to trace the posting." A grimace. "But only if Chilton cooperates."

"Is there anything in the picture of Qetzal-those numbers and codes and words? Anything that might help?"

Boling said that they were mostly about the game and had probably been made a long time ago. In any case, even the puzzlemaster could find no clues in the weird notations.

The others in the room scrupulously avoided commenting that the second picture, of the stabbing, bore a resemblance to Dance herself.

She was about to phone the blogger, when she got a call. Barking a laugh as she looked at Caller ID, she picked up. "Yes, Mr. Chilton?"

Boling looked at her with an ironic gaze.

"I don't know if you saw…?"

"We did. Your blog got hacked."

"The server had good security. The boy's got to be smart." A pause. Then the blogger continued, "I wanted to let you know, we tried to trace the hack. He's using a proxy site somewhere in Scandinavia. I've called some friends over there, and they're pretty certain they know what the company is. I have the name and their address. Phone number too. It's outside of Stockholm."

"Will they cooperate?"

Chilton said, "Proxy services rarely do unless there's a warrant. That's why people use them, of course."

An international warrant would be a nightmare procedurally and Dance had never known one to be served earlier than two or three weeks after it was issued. Sometimes the foreign authorities ignored them altogether. But it was something. "Give me the information. I'll try."

Chilton did.

"I appreciate your doing this."

"And there's something else."

"What's that?"

"Are you in the blog now?"

"I can be."

"Read what I just posted a few minutes ago."

She logged on.

http://www.thechiltonreport.com/html/june28.html

First was an apology to the readers, surprising Dance with its humility. Then came:

An Open Letter to Travis Brigham This is a personal plea, Travis. Now that your name is public, I hope you won't mind my using it. My job is to report the news, to ask questions, not to get involved in the stories I report on. But I have to get involved now. Please, Travis, there's been enough trouble. Don't make it worse for yourself. It's not too late to put an end to this terrible situation. Think of your family, think of your future. Please…call the police, give yourself up. There are people who want to help you.

Dance said, "That's brilliant, James. Travis might even contact you about surrendering."

"And I've frozen the thread. Nobody else can post to it." He was silent for a moment. "That picture…it was terrible."

Welcome to the real world, Chilton.

She thanked him and they hung up. She scrolled to the end of the "Roadside Crosses" thread and read the most recent-and apparently last-posts. Although some seemed to have been posted from overseas, she once again couldn't help wondering if they contained clues that might help her find Travis or anticipate his next moves. But she could draw no conclusions from the cryptic postings.

Dance logged off and told TJ and Boling about what Chilton had written.

Boling wasn't sure it would have much effect-the boy, in his assessment, was past reasoning with. "But we'll hope."

Dance doled out assignments; TJ retreated to his chair at the coffee table to contact the Scandinavian proxy, and Boling to his corner to check out the names of possible victims from a new batch of Internet addresses-including those who'd posted to threads other than "Roadside Crosses." He'd identified thirteen more.

Charles Overby, in a politician's blue suit and white shirt, stepped into Dance's office. His greeting: "Kathryn…say, Kathryn, what's this about the kid posting threats?"

"Right, Charles. We're trying to find out where he hacked in from."

"Six reporters have already called me. And a couple of them got my home phone number. I've put them off but I can't wait anymore. I'm holding a press conference in twenty minutes. What can I tell them?"

"That the investigation is continuing. We're getting some manpower help from San Benito for the search. There've been sightings but nothing's panned out."

"Hamilton called me too. He's pretty upset."

Sacramento's Hamilton Royce, of the too-blue suit, the quick eyes and the ruddy complexion.

Agent in Charge Overby had had a rather eventful morning, it seemed.

"Anything more?"

"Chilton's stopped the posts on the thread and asked Travis to surrender."

"Anything tech, I mean?"

"Well, he's helping us trace the boy's uploads."

"Good. So we're doing something."

He meant: something the viewers of prime-time TV would appreciate. As opposed to the sweaty, unstylish police work they'd been engaged in the last forty-eight hours. Dance caught Boling's eye, which said he too was taken aback by the comment. They looked away from each other immediately before a shared look of shock bloomed.

Overby glanced at his watch. "All right. My turn in the barrel." He wandered off to the press conference.

"Does he know what that expression means?" Boling asked her.

"About the barrel? I don't know, myself."

TJ gave a chortling laugh but said nothing. He smiled at Boling, who said, "It's a joke I won't repeat. It involves horny sailors out to sea for a long time."

"Thanks for not sharing." Dance dropped into her desk chair, sipped the coffee that had materialized and, what the hell, went for half of the doughnut that also had appeared as a gift from the gods.

"Has Travis-well, Stryker-been back online?" she called to Jon Boling.

"Nope. Haven't heard from Irv. But he'll be sure to let us know. I don't think he's ever slept. He's got Red Bull in his veins."

Dance picked up the phone and called Peter Bennington at MCSO forensics for the latest information on the evidence. The gist was that while there was by now plenty of evidence to get a murder conviction against Travis, there were no leads as to where he might be hiding out, except those traces of soil they'd found earlier-a location different from that where the cross had been left. David Reinhold, that eager young deputy from the sheriff's office, had taken it on himself to collect samples from around Travis's house; the dirt didn't match.

Sandy soil…So helpful, Dance reflected cynically, in an area that boasted more than fifteen miles of the most beautiful beaches and dunes in the state.

DESPITE HIS ABILITY to report that the CBI was "doing something techie," Charles Overby got T-boned at the press conference.

The TV in Dance's office was on and they were able to watch the crash live.

Dance's briefing to Overby had been accurate, except for one small detail, albeit one she hadn't known.

"Agent Overby," a reporter asked, "what are you doing to protect the community in light of the new cross?"

Deer in the headlights.

"Uh-oh," TJ whispered.

Shocked, Dance looked from him to Boling. Then back to the screen.

The reporter continued that she'd heard a report a half hour earlier on a radio scanner. Carmel police had found another cross with today's date, June 28, near China Cove on Highway 1.

Overby sputtered in response, "I was briefed just before coming here by the agent in charge of the case, and she apparently wasn't aware of it."

There were two senior women agents in the Monterey office of the CBI. It would be easy to find out who the "she" in question was.

Oh, you son of a bitch, Charles.

She heard another reporter ask, "Agent Overby, what do you say to the fact that the town, the whole Peninsula's in a panic? There've been reports of homeowners shooting at innocent people who happen to walk into their yards."

A pause. "Well, that's not good."

Oh, brother…

Dance shut the TV off. She called the MCSO and learned that, yes, another cross, with today's date, had been found near China Cove. A bouquet of red roses too. Crime Scene was collecting the evidence and searching the area.

"There were no witnesses, Agent Dance," the deputy added.

After she hung up, Dance turned to TJ. "What do the Swedes tell us?"

TJ had phoned the proxy service company and left two urgent messages. They had not returned his call yet, despite it being a business day in Stockholm and only past lunchtime.

Five minutes later Overby stormed into the office. "Another cross? Another cross? What the hell happened?"

"I just found out about it myself, Charles."

"How the hell did they hear?"

"The press? Scanners, contacts. The way they always find out what we're doing."

Overby rubbed his tanned forehead. Skin flakes drifted. "Well, where are we with it?"

"Michael's people are running the scene. If there's evidence they'll let us know."

"If there's evidence."

"He's a teenager, Charles, not a pro. He's going to leave some clues that'll lead us to where he's hiding. Sooner or later."

"But if he left a cross that means he's also going to try to kill somebody today."

"We're contacting as many people as we can find who might be at risk."

"And the computer tracing? What's going on there?"

TJ said, "The company's not calling us back. We've got Legal putting together a foreign warrant request."

The head of the office grimaced. "That's just great. Where's the proxy?"

"Sweden."

"They're better than the Bulgarians," Overby said, "but it'll be a month before they even get around to responding. Send the request, to cover our asses, but don't waste time on it."

"Yes, sir."

Overby stormed off, fishing his mobile out of his pocket.

Dance snagged her own phone and called Rey Carraneo and Albert Stemple into her office. When they arrived she announced, "I'm tired of being on the defensive here. I want to pick the top five or six potential victims-the ones who've posted the most vicious attacks on Travis, and the posters who're the most supportive of Chilton. We're going to get them out of the area and then set up surveillance at their houses or apartments. He's got a new victim in mind and when he shows up, I want him to get one big goddamn surprise. Let's get on it."

Chapter 26

How's he holding up?" Lily Hawken asked her husband, Donald.

"James? He's not saying much but it's got to be tough on him. Patrizia too, I'm sure."

They were in the den of their new house in Monterey.

Unpacking, unpacking, unpacking…

The petite blonde stood in the middle of the room, feet apart slightly, looking down at two plastic bags of drapes. "What do you think?"

Hawken was a bit overwhelmed at the moment and couldn't care less about window treatments, but his wife of nine months and three days had taken on much of the burden of the move from San Diego and so he set down the tools he was using to assemble the coffee table and looked from the red to the rust and back again.

"The ones on the left." Remaining ready to retreat at a moment's notice if that was the wrong answer.

But it was apparently correct. "That's where I was leaning," she said. "And the police have a guard at his house? They think the boy is going to attack him?"

Hawken resumed assembling the table. Ikea. Damn, they have some pretty clever designers. "He doesn't think so. But you know Jim. Even if he did, he's not the sort to head for the hills."

Then he reflected that Lily didn't really know James Chilton at all; she hadn't even met him yet. It was only through what he'd told her that she had an understanding of his friend.

Just as he knew about many aspects of her life from conversation and hint and deduction. Such was life under these circumstances-second marriages for both of them; he, coming out of mourning, Lily, recovering from a tough divorce. They'd met through friends and had started dating. Wary at first, they'd realized almost simultaneously how starved for intimacy and affection they were. Hawken, a man who hadn't believed that he would ever get married again, proposed after six months-on the gritty rooftop beach bar of the W hotel in downtown San Diego, because he couldn't wait to plot out a more suitable setting.

Lily, though, had described the event as the most romantic thing she could think of. The large diamond ring on a white ribbon slipped over the neck of her Anchor Steam bottle helped.

And here they were starting a new life back in Monterey.

Donald Hawken assessed his situation and decided that he was happy. Boyishly happy. Friends had told him that a second marriage after losing a spouse was different. As a widower he would have changed fundamentally. He wouldn't be capable of that adolescent feeling permeating every cell of his being. There'd be companionship, there'd be moments of passion. But the relationship would essentially be a friendship.

Wrong.

It was adolescent and more.

He'd had an intense, consuming marriage to Sarah, who was sultry and beautiful and a woman one could be intensely in love with, as Hawken had been.

But his love for Lily was just as strong.

And, okay, he'd finally gotten to the point where he could admit that the sex was better with Lily-in the sense that it was far more comfortable. In bed Sarah had been, well, formidable, to put it mildly. (Hawken now nearly smiled at some memories.)

He wondered how Lily would feel about Jim and Pat Chilton. Hawken had told her how they'd been such close friends, the couples getting together frequently. Attending their kids' school and sports events, parties, barbecues…He'd noticed Lily's smile shift slightly when he'd told her about this past. But he'd reassured her that, in a way, Jim Chilton was a stranger to him too. Hawken had been so depressed after Sarah's death that he'd lost contact with nearly all his friends.

But now he was returning to life. He and Lily would finish getting the house ready and then collect the children, who were staying with their grandparents in Encinitas. And his life would settle back into the pleasant routine on the Peninsula he remembered from years before. He'd reconnect with his best friend, Jim Chilton, rejoin the country club, see all his friends again.

Yes, this was the right move. But a cloud had appeared. Small, temporary, he was sure, but a blemish nonetheless.

By coming to the place that had been his and Sarah's home, it was as if he'd resurrected a part of her. The memories popped like fireworks:

Here in Monterey, Sarah being the thoughtful hostess, the passionate art collector, the shrewd businesswoman.

Here, Sarah being the sultry, energetic and consuming lover.

Here, Sarah intrepidly donning a wetsuit and swimming in the harsh ocean, climbing out, chilled and exhilarated-unlike her last swim, near La Jolla, not climbing out of the water at all, but wafting into the shore, limp, eyes open and unseeing, her skin matching the water temperature degree for degree.

At this thought, Hawken's heart now added an extra beat or two.

Then he took several deep breaths and slipped the memories away. "Want a hand?" He glanced at Lily and the drapes.

His wife paused, then set down her work. She approached, took his hand and put it on the V of skin below her throat. She kissed him hard.

They smiled at each other, and his wife returned to the windows.

Hawken finished the glass-and-chrome table and dragged it in front of the couch.

"Honey?" The tape measure was drooping in Lily's hand and she was looking out the back window.

"What?"

"I think somebody's out there."

"Where, in the backyard?"

"I don't know if it's our property. It's on the other side of the hedge."

"Then it's definitely somebody else's yard."

Your dollar doesn't buy you much dirt here on the Central Coast of California.

"He's just standing there, looking at the house."

"Probably wondering if a rock-and-roll band or druggies are moving in."

She climbed down a step. "Just standing there," she repeated. "I don't know, honey, it's a little spooky."

Hawken walked to the window and looked out. From this perspective he couldn't see much, but it was clear that a figure was peering through the bushes. He wore a gray sweatshirt with the hood pulled up.

"Maybe the neighbor's kid. They're always curious about people moving in. Wondering if we have kids their age. I was."

Lily wasn't saying anything. He could sense her discomfort, as she stood with her narrow hips cocked, frowning eyes framed by blond hair flecked with moving-carton-cardboard dust.

Time for the chivalry part.

Hawken walked into the kitchen and pulled open the back door. The visitor was gone.

He stepped out farther, then heard his wife call, "Honey!"

Alarmed, Hawken turned and sped back inside.

Lily, still on the ladder, was pointing out another window. The visitor had moved into the side yard-definitely on their property now, though still obscured by plantings.

"Damnit. Who the hell is he?"

He glanced at the phone but decided not to call 911. What if it was the neighbor or the neighbor's son? That would pretty much ruin any chance for a friendship forever.

When he looked back the figure was gone.

Lily climbed off the ladder. "Where is he? He just vanished. Fast."

"No idea."

They gazed out the windows, scanning.

No sign of him.

This was far spookier, not being able to see him.

"I think we should-"

Hawken's voice stopped with a gasp as Lily cried, "A gun-he's got a gun, Don!" She was staring out a front window.

Her husband grabbed his phone, calling to his wife, "The door! Lock it."

Lily lunged.

But she was too late.

The door was already swinging wide.

Lily screamed and Don Hawken pulled her to the floor beneath him, in a noble but, he understood, useless gesture to save the life of his bride.

Chapter 27

OURS OF OPERA…

Sitting in Kathryn Dance's office, alone now, Jonathan Boling was cruising through Travis Brigham's computer, in a frantic pursuit of the meaning of the code. ours of opera…

He was sitting forward, typing fast, thinking that if Dance had been here, the kinesics expert within her could have drawn some fast conclusions from his posture and the focus of his eyes: He was a dog scenting prey.

Jon Boling was on to something.

Dance and the others were out at the moment, setting up surveillance. Boling had remained in her office to prowl through the boy's computer. He'd found a clue and was now trying to locate more data that would let him crack the code. ours of opera…

What did it mean?

A curious aspect of computers is that these crazy plastic and metal boxes contain ghosts. A computer hard drive is like a network of secret passages and corridors, leading farther and farther into the architecture of computer memory. It's possible-with considerable difficulty-to exorcise these hallways and rid them of the ghosts of data past, but usually most bits of information we've created or acquired remain forever, invisible and fragmented.

Boling was now wandering these hallways, using a program one of his students had hacked together, reading the scraps of data lodged in obscure places, like the wisps of souls inhabiting a haunted house.

Thinking of ghosts put him in mind of the DVD Kathryn Dance's son had lent him last night. Ghost in the Shell. He reflected on the nice time he'd had at her house, how much he'd enjoyed meeting her friends and family. The children especially. Maggie was adorable and funny and would, he knew without a doubt, become a woman every bit as formidable as her mother. Wes was more laid-back. He was easy to talk to and brilliant. Boling often speculated about what his own children would have been like if he'd settled down with Cassie.

He thought of her now, hoped she was enjoying her life in China.

Recalled the weeks prior to her leaving.

And withdrew his generous wishes about contentment in Asia.

Then Boling put thoughts of Cassandra aside, and concentrated on his ghost hunt in the computer. He was getting close to something important in that shred of binary code that translated into the English letters ours of opera.

Boling's puzzle-loving mind, which could often be counted on to come up with curious leaps of logic and insight, automatically concluded that those words were fragments of "hours of operation." Travis had looked at that phrase online just before he'd vanished. The implication of this was that perhaps, just perhaps, these words referred to a location the boy was interested in.

But computers don't store related data in the same place. The code for "ours of opera" might be found in a spooky closet in the basement, while the name of whatever they referred to could be in a hallway in the attic. Part of the physical address in one place, the rest in another. The brain of a computer is constantly making decisions about breaking up the data and storing bits and pieces in places that make sense to it but are incomprehensible to a layperson.

And so Boling was following the trail, strolling through the dark corridors filled with spooks.

He didn't think he'd been this engaged in a project for months, maybe years. Jonathan Boling enjoyed university work. He was curious by nature and he liked the challenge of research and writing, the stimulating conversations with fellow faculty members and with his students, getting young people excited about learning. Seeing the eyes of a student intensify suddenly when random facts coalesced into understanding was pure pleasure to him.

But at the moment, those satisfactions and victories seemed minor. Now, he was on a mission to save lives. And nothing else mattered to him but unlocking the code. ours of opera…

He looked at another storeroom in the haunted house. Nothing but jumbled bits and bytes. Another false lead.

More typing.

Nothing.

Boling stretched and a joint popped loudly. Come on, Travis, why were you interested in this place? What appealed to you about it?

And do you still go there? Does a friend work there? Do you buy something from its shelves, display cases, aisles?

Ten more minutes.

Give up?

No way.

Then he strolled into a new part of the haunted house. He blinked and gave a laugh. Like joining pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, the answer to the code "ours of opera" materialized.

As he gazed at the name of the place, its relationship to Travis Brigham was ridiculously obvious. The professor was angry at himself for not deducing it even without the digital clue. Looking up the address, he pulled his phone off his belt and called Kathryn Dance. It rang four times and went to voice mail.

He was about to leave a message, but then he looked at his notes. The place wasn't far from where he was right now. No more than fifteen minutes.

He flipped the phone shut with a soft snap and stood, pulled on his jacket.

With an involuntary glance at the picture of Dance and her children, dogs front and center, he stepped out of her office and headed for the front door of the CBI.

Aware that what he was about to do was possibly a very bad idea, Jon Boling left the synth world to continue his quest in the real.

"IT'S CLEAR," REY Carraneo told Kathryn Dance as he returned to the living room where she stood over Donald and Lily Hawken. Dance's pistol was in her hand as she was looking vigilantly out the windows and into the rooms of the small house.

The couple, shaken and unsmiling, sat on a new couch, the factory plastic wrap still covering it.

Dance replaced her Glock. She hadn't expected the boy to be inside-he'd been hiding in the side yard and had appeared to flee when the police arrived-but Travis's expertise at the game of DimensionQuest, his skill at combat, made her wonder if the teenager had somehow seemed to escape but had actually slipped inside.

The door opened and massive Albert Stemple stuck his head in. "Nup. He's gone." The man was wheezing-both from the pursuit and from the residual effects of the gas at Kelley Morgan's house. "Got the deputy lookin' up and down the streets. And we got a half dozen more cars on the way. Somebody saw somebody in a hooded sweatshirt on a bicycle heading through the alleys, making for downtown. I called it in. But…" He shrugged. Then the bulky agent vanished and his boots clomped down the steps as he went to join in the manhunt.

Dance, Carraneo, Stemple and the MCSO deputy had arrived ten minutes ago. As they'd been meeting with likely targets, an idea had occurred to Dance. She thought about Jon Boling's theory: that, expanding his targets, Travis might include people merely mentioned favorably in the blog, even if they hadn't posted.

Dance had gone to the site once again and read through the blog's homepage.

http://www.thechiltonreport.com

One name that stood out was Donald Hawken, an old friend of James Chilton's, who was mentioned in the "On the Home Front" section. Hawken might be the victim for whom Travis had left the cross on the windswept stretch of Highway 1.

So they'd driven to the man's house, their purpose to get Hawken and his wife out of danger and set up surveillance at the house.

But upon arriving, Dance had seen a figure in a hood, possibly holding a gun, lurking in the bushes to the side of the ranch. She'd sent Albert Stemple and the MCSO deputy after the intruder, and Rey Carraneo, with Dance behind him, barged into the house, guns drawn, to protect Hawken and his wife.

They were still badly shaken; they'd assumed Carraneo was the killer when the plainclothes agent had burst through the door, his weapon high.

Dance's Motorola crackled and she answered. It was Stemple again. "I'm in the backyard. Got a cross carved into this patch of dirt and rose petals scattered around it."

"Roger that, Al."

Lily closed her eyes, lowered her head to her husband's shoulder.

Four or five minutes, Dance was thinking. If we'd gotten here just that much later, the couple would be dead.

"Why us?" Hawken asked. "We didn't do anything to him. We didn't post. We don't even know him."

Dance explained about the boy's expanding his targets.

"You mean, anybody even mentioned in the blog's at risk?"

"Seems that way."

Dozens of police had descended on the area within minutes, but the calls coming in made clear that Travis was nowhere to be found.

How the hell does a kid on a bicycle get away? Dance thought, frustrated. He just vanishes. Where? Somebody's basement? An abandoned construction site?

Outside, the first of the press cars were beginning to arrive, the vans with the dishes atop, the cameramen prodding their equipment to life.

About to stoke the panic in town that much hotter.

More police showed up too, including several bicycle patrol officers.

Dance now asked Hawken, "You still have your house in the San Diego area?"

Lily replied, "It's on the market. Hasn't sold yet."

"I'd like you to go back there."

"Well," he said, "there's no furniture. It's in storage."

"You have people you can stay with?"

"My parents. Donald's children are staying with them now."

"Then go back there until we find Travis."

"I guess we could," Lily said.

"You go," Hawken said to her. "I'm not leaving Jim."

"There's nothing you can do to help him," Dance said.

"There sure is. I can give him moral support. This is a terrible time. He needs friends."

Dance continued, "I'm sure he appreciates your loyalty, but look at what just happened. That boy knows where you live and he obviously wants to hurt you."

"You might catch him in a half hour."

"We might not. I really have to insist, Mr. Hawken."

The man showed a bit of businessman's steel. "I won't leave him." Then the edge left his voice as he added, "I have to explain something." The smallest of glances at his wife. A pause, then: "My first wife, Sarah, died a couple of years ago."

"I'm sorry."

The dismissive shrug that Dance knew oh so well.

"Jim dropped everything; he was at my door within the hour. He stayed by me and the children for a week. Helped us and Sarah's family with everything. Food, the funeral arrangements. He even took turns with the housework and laundry. I was paralyzed. I just couldn't do anything. I think he might've saved my life back then. He certainly saved my sanity."

Again Dance couldn't suppress the memories of the months after her own spouse's death-when Martine Christensen, much like Chilton, had been there for her. Dance would never have hurt herself, not with the children, but there were plenty of times when, yes, she thought she might go mad.

She understood Donald Hawken's loyalty.

"I'm not leaving," the man repeated firmly. "There's no point in asking." Then he hugged his wife. "But you go back. I want you to leave."

Without a moment's hesitation, Lily said, "No, I'm staying with you."

Dance noted the look. Adoration, contentment, resolve…Her own heart flipped as she thought, He lost his first spouse, recovered and found love again.

It can happen, Dance thought. See?

Then she closed the door on her own life.

"All right," she agreed reluctantly. "But you're leaving here right now. Find a hotel and stay there, stay out of sight. And we're going to put a guard on you."

"That's fine."

It was then that a car screeched to a stop in front of the house, a voice shouting in alarm. She and Carraneo stepped out onto the porch.

"S'okay," Albert Stemple said, his voice a lazy drawl, minus the Southern accent. "Only Chilton."

The blogger had apparently heard the news and hurried over. He raced up the steps. "What happened?" Dance was surprised to hear panic in his voice. She'd detected anger, pettiness, arrogance earlier, but never this sound. "Are they all right?"

"Fine," she said. "Travis was here, but Donald's fine. His wife too."

"What happened?" The collar of the blogger's jacket was askew.

Hawken and Lily stepped outside. "Jim!"

Chilton ran forward and embraced his friend. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, yes. The police got here in time."

"Did you catch him?" Chilton asked.

"No," Dance said, expecting Chilton to launch into criticism for their not capturing the boy. But he took her hand firmly and gripped it. "Thank you, thank you. You saved them. Thank you."

She nodded awkwardly and released his hand. Then Chilton turned to Lily with a smile of curiosity.

Dance deduced that they'd never met before, not in person. Hawken introduced them now and Chilton gave Lily a warm embrace. "I'm so sorry about this. I never, not in a million years, thought it would affect you."

"Who would have?" Hawken asked.

With a rueful smile, Chilton said to his friend, "With an introduction to the Monterey Peninsula like this, she's not going to want to stay. She's going to move back tomorrow."

Lily finally cracked a fragile smile. "I would. Except we've already bought the drapes." A nod at the house.

Chilton laughed. "She's funny, Don. Why doesn't she stay and you go back to San Diego?"

"Afraid you're stuck with both of us."

Chilton then grew serious. "You have to leave until this is over."

Dance said, "I've been trying to talk them into that."

"We're not leaving."

"Don-" Chilton began.

But Hawken laughed, nodding at Dance. "I have police permission. She agreed. We're going to hide out in a hotel. Like Bonnie and Clyde."

"But-"

"No buts, buddy. We're here. You can't get rid of us now."

Chilton opened his mouth to object, but then noted Lily's wry grin. She said, "You don't want to be telling this girl what to do, Jim."

The blogger gave another laugh and said, "Fair enough. Thank you. Get to a hotel. Stay there. In a day or two this'll all be over with. Things'll get back to normal."

Hawken said, "I haven't seen Pat and the boys since I left. Over three years."

Dance eyed the blogger. Something else about him was different. Her impression was that she was seeing for the first time his human side, as if this near-tragedy had pulled him yet further from the synth world into the real.

The crusader was, at least temporarily, absent.

She left them to their reminiscences and walked around back. A voice from the bushes startled her. "Hello."

She looked behind her to see the young deputy who'd been helping them out, David Reinhold.

"Deputy."

He grinned. "Call me David. I heard he was here. You almost nailed him."

"Close. Not close enough."

He was carrying several battered metal suitcases, stenciled with MCSO-CSU on the side. "Sorry I couldn't tell anything for certain about those branches in your backyard-that cross."

"I couldn't tell either. Probably it was just a fluke. If I trimmed the trees like I should, it never would've happened."

His bright eyes glanced her way. "You have a nice house."

"Thanks. Despite the messy backyard."

"No. It's real comfortable-looking."

She asked the deputy, "And how 'bout you, David? You live in Monterey?"

"I did. Had a roommate, but he left, so I had to move to Marina."

"Well, appreciate your efforts. I'll put in a good word with Michael O'Neil."

"Really, Kathryn? That'd be great." He glowed.

Reinhold turned away and began cordoning off the backyard. Dance stared at what was in the center of the yellow tape trapezoid: the cross etched into the dirt and the sprinkling of petals.

From there, her eyes rose and took in the sweeping decline from the heights of Monterey down to the bay, where a sliver of water could be seen.

It was a panoramic view, beautiful.

But today it seemed as disturbing as the terrible mask of Qetzal, the demon in DimensionQuest.

You're out there somewhere, Travis.

Where, where?

Chapter 28

Tracking down Travis the way Jack Bauer chased terrorists.

Jon Boling had a lead: the possible location from which Travis had sent the blog posting of the mask drawing and the horrific stabbing of the woman who looked a bit like Kathryn Dance. The place where the boy would be playing his precious DimensionQuest.

The "hours of operation" he'd found in the ghostly corridors of Travis's computer referred to Lighthouse Arcade, a video and computer gaming center in New Monterey.

The boy would be taking a risk going out in public, of course, considering the manhunt. But if he picked his routes carefully, wore sunglasses and a cap and something other than the hoodie the TV reports were depicting him in, well, he could probably move around with some freedom.

Besides, when it came to online gaming and Morpegs, an addict had no choice but to risk detection.

Boling piloted his Audi off the highway and onto Del Monte then Lighthouse and headed into the neighborhood where the arcade was located.

He was enjoying a certain exhilaration. Here he was, a forty-one-year-old professor, who lived largely by his brain. He'd never thought of himself as suffering from an absence of bravery. He'd done some rock climbing, scuba diving, downhill skiing. Then too, the world of ideas carried risk of harm-to careers and reputations and contentment. He'd battled it out with fellow professors. He also had been a victim of vicious online attacks, much like those against Travis, though with better spelling, grammar and punctuation. Most recently he'd been attacked for taking a stand against file sharing of copyrighted material.

He hadn't expected the viciousness of the attacks. He was trounced…called a "fucking capitalist," a "bitch whore of big business." Boling particularly liked "professor of mass destruction."

Some colleagues actually stopped talking to him.

But the harm he'd experienced, of course, was nothing compared with what Kathryn Dance and her fellow officers risked day after day.

And which he himself was now risking, he reflected.

Playing cop…

Boling realized that he'd been helpful to Kathryn and the others. He was pleased about that and pleased at their recognition of his contribution. But being so close to the action, hearing the phone calls, watching Kathryn's face as she took down information about the crimes, seeing her hand absently stroke the black gun on her hip…he felt a longing to participate.

And anything else, Jon? he wryly asked himself.

Well, okay, maybe he was trying to impress her.

Absurd, but he'd felt a bit of jealousy seeing her and Michael O'Neil connect.

You're acting like a goddamn teenager.

Still, something about her lit the fuse. Boling had never been able to explain it-who could, really?-when that connection occurred. And it happened fast or never. Dance was single, he was too. He'd gotten over Cassie (okay, pretty much over); was Kathryn getting close to dating again? He believed he'd gotten a few signals from her. But what did he know? He had none of her skill-body language.

More to the point, he was a man, a species genetically fitted with persistent oblivion.

Boling now parked his gray A4 near Lighthouse Arcade, on a side street in that netherworld north of Pacific Grove. He remembered when this strip of small businesses and smaller apartments, dubbed New Monterey, had been a mini-Haight Ashbury, tucked between a brawling army town and a religious retreat. (Pacific Grove's Lovers Point was named for lovers of Jesus, not one another.) Now the area was as bland as a strip mall in Omaha or Seattle.

The Lighthouse Arcade was dim and shabby and smelled, well, gamy-a pun he couldn't wait to share with her.

He surveyed the surreal place. The players-most of them boys-sat at terminals, staring at the screens, teasing joysticks and pounding on keyboards. The playing stations had high, curving walls covered with black sound-dampening material, and the chairs were comfortable, high-backed leather models.

Everything a young man would need for a digital experience was here. In addition to the computers and keyboards there were noise-cancelling headsets, microphones, touch pads, input devices like car steering wheels and airplane yokes, three-D glasses, and banks of sockets for power, USB, Firewire, audiovisual and more obscure connections. Some had Wii devices.

Boling had written about the latest trend in gaming: total immersion pods, which had originated in Japan, where kids would sit for hours and hours in a dark, private space, completely sealed off from the real world, to play computer games. This was a logical development in a country known for hikikomori, or "withdrawal," an increasingly common lifestyle in which young people, boys and men mostly, became recluses, never leaving their rooms for months or years at a time, living exclusively through their computers.

The noise was disorienting: a cacophony of digitally generated sounds-explosions, gunshots, animal cries, eerie shrieks and laughs-and an ocean of indistinguishable human voices speaking into microphones to fellow gamers somewhere in the world. Responses rattled from speakers. Occasionally cries and expletives would issue hoarsely from the throats of desperate players as they died or realized a tactical mistake.

The Lighthouse Arcade, typical of thousands around the globe, represented the last outpost of the real world before you plunged into the synth.

Boling felt a vibration on his hip. He looked down at his mobile. The message from Irv, his grad student, read: Stryker logged on five minutes ago in DQ!!

As if he'd been slapped, Boling looked around. Was Travis here? Because of the enclosures, it was impossible to see more than one or two stations at a time.

At the counter a long-haired clerk sat oblivious to the noise; he was reading a science fiction novel. Boling approached. "I'm looking for a kid, a teenager."

The clerk lifted an ironic eyebrow.

I'm looking for a tree in a forest.

"Yeah?"

"He's playing DimensionQuest. Did you sign somebody in about five minutes ago?"

"There's no sign-in. You use with tokens. You can buy 'em here or from a machine." The clerk was looking Boling over carefully. "You his father?"

"No. Just want to find him."

"I can look over the servers. Find out if anybody's logged onto DQ now."

"You could?"

"Yeah."

"Great."

But the kid wasn't making any moves to check the servers; he was just staring at Boling through a frame of unclean hair.

Ah. Got it. We're negotiating. Sweet. Very private-eye-ish, Boling thought. A moment later two twenties vanished into the pocket of the kid's unwashed jeans.

"His avatar's name is Stryker, if that helps," Boling told him.

A grunt. "Be back in a minute." He vanished onto the floor. Boling saw him emerge on the far side of the room and walk toward the back office.

Five minutes later he returned.

"Somebody named Stryker, yeah, he's playing DQ. Just logged on. Station forty-three. It's over there."

"Thanks."

"Uh." The clerk went back to his S-F novel.

Boling, thinking frantically: What should he do? Have the clerk evacuate the arcade? No, then Travis would catch on. He should just call 911. But he better see if the boy was alone. Would he have his gun with him?

He had a fantasy of walking past casually, ripping the gun from the boy's belt and covering him till the police arrived.

No. Don't do that. Under any circumstances.

Palms sweating, Boling slowly walked toward station 43. He took a fast look around the corner. The computer had the Aetherian landscape on the screen, but the chair was empty.

Nobody was in the aisles, though. Station 44 was empty but at 42 a girl with short green hair was playing a martial arts game.

Boling walked up to her. "Excuse me."

The girl was delivering crippling blows to an opponent. Finally the creature fell over dead and her avatar climbed on top of the body and pulled its head off. "Like, yeah?" She didn't glance up.

"The boy who was just here, playing DQ. Where is he?"

"Like, I don't know. Jimmy walked past and said something and he left. A minute ago."

"Who's Jimmy?"

"You know, the clerk."

Goddamn! I just paid forty dollars to that shit to tip off Travis. Some cop I am.

Boling glared at the clerk, who remained conspicuously lost in his novel.

The professor slammed through the exit door and sprinted outside. His eyes, accustomed to the darkness, stung. He paused in the alleyway, squinting left and right. Then caught a glimpse of a young man, walking quickly away, head down.

Don't do anything stupid, he told himself. He pulled his BlackBerry from its holster.

Ahead of him, the boy broke into a run.

After exactly one second of debate, Jon Boling did too.

Chapter 29

Hamilton Royce, the ombudsman from the attorney general's office in Sacramento, disconnected the phone. It drooped in his hand as he reflected on the conversation he'd just had-a conversation conducted in the language known as Political and Corporate Euphemism.

He lingered in the halls of the CBI, considering options.

Finally he returned to Charles Overby's office.

The agent-in-charge was sitting back in his chair watching a press report about the case streaming on his computer. How the police had come close to catching the killer at the house of a friend of the blogger's but had missed him and he'd escaped possibly to terrorize more people on the Monterey Peninsula.

Royce reflected that simply reporting that the police had saved the friend didn't have quite the stay-tuned-or-else veneer of the approach the network had chosen to take.

Overby typed and a different station came up. The special report anchor apparently preferred Travis to be the "Video Game Killer," rather than defining him by masks or roadside crosses. He went on to describe how the boy tormented his victims before he killed them.

Never mind that only one person had died or that the bastard got shot in the back of the head, fleeing. Which would tend to minimize the torment.

Finally he said, "Well, Charles, they're getting more concerned. The AG." He lifted his phone like he was showing a shield during a bust.

"We're all pretty concerned," Overby echoed. "The whole Peninsula's concerned. It's really our priority now. Like I was saying." His face was cloudy. "But is Sacramento having a problem with how we're handling the case?"

"Not per se." Royce let this nonresponse buzz around Overby's head like a strident hornet.

"We're doing everything we can."

"I like that agent of yours. Dance."

"Oh, she's top-notch. Nothing gets by her."

A leisurely nod, a thoughtful nod. "The AG feels bad about those victims. I feel bad about them." Royce poured sympathy into his voice, and tried to recall the last time he really felt bad. Probably when he missed his daughter's emergency appendectomy because he was in bed with his mistress.

"A tragedy."

"I know I'm sounding like a broken record. But I really do feel that that blog is the problem."

"It is," Overby agreed. "It's the eye of the hurricane."

Which is calm and frames a beautiful blue sky, Royce corrected silently.

The CBI chief offered, "Well, Kathryn did get Chilton to post a plea for the boy to come in. And he gave us some details about the server-a proxy in Scandinavia."

"I understand. It's just…as long as that blog's up, it's a reminder that the job isn't getting done." Meaning: By you. "I keep coming back to that question about something helpful to us, something about Chilton."

"Kathryn said she'd keep an eye peeled."

"She's busy. I wonder if there's something in what she's already found. I don't really want to deflect Agent Dance from the case. I wonder if I should take a gander."

"You?"

"You wouldn't mind, would you, Charles? If I just took a peek at the files. I could bring perspective. My impression, actually, is that Kathryn's maybe too kind."

"Too kind?"

"You were sharp, Charles, to hire her." The agent in charge accepted this compliment, though, Royce knew, Kathryn Dance had predated Overby's presence in the CBI here by four years. He continued, "Clever. You saw she was an antidote to the cynicism of old roosters like you and me. But the price of that is a certain…naïveté."

"You think she's got something on Chilton and doesn't know it?"

"Could be."

Overby was looking tense. "Well, I'll apologize for her. Put it down to distraction, why don't we? Her mother's case. Not focusing up to par. She's doing the best she can."

Hamilton Royce was known for his ruthlessness. But he would never have sold out a loyal member of his team with a comment like that. He reflected that it was almost impressive to see the top three darker qualities of human nature displayed so boldly: cowardice, pettiness and betrayal. "Is she in?"

"Let me find out." Overby made a call and spoke to someone who Royce deduced was Dance's assistant. He hung up.

"She's still at the crime scene at the Hawken house."

"So, then, I'll just have a look-see." But then Royce seemed to have a thought. "Of course, probably better if I weren't disturbed."

"Here's an idea. I'll call her assistant back, ask her to do something. Run an errand. There are always reports needing to get copied. Or, I know: get her input about workload and hours. It would make sense for me to take her pulse. I'm that kind of boss. She'd never suspect anything's out of the ordinary."

Royce left Overby's office, walked down corridors whose routes he'd memorized, and paused near Dance's. He waited in the hallway until he saw that the assistant-an efficient-looking woman named Maryellen-took a call. Then, with a perplexed frown, she stood and headed up the corridor, leaving Hamilton Royce free to plunder.

WHEN HE GOT to the end of the alley, Jon Boling paused and looked to the right, down a side street, in the direction that Travis had disappeared. From here the ground descended toward Monterey Bay and was filled with small single-family bungalows, beige and tan apartment buildings and abundant groundcover. Though Lighthouse Avenue, behind him, was ripe with traffic the side road was empty. Thick fog had come up and the scenery was gray.

Well, now that the kid had gotten away, he thought, Kathryn Dance wasn't likely to be very impressed with his detection work.

He called 911 and reported that he'd seen Travis Brigham and gave his location. The dispatcher reported that a police car would be at the arcade in five minutes.

Okay, that was enough of the adolescent behavior, he told himself. His skill was academia, teaching, intellectual analysis.

The world of ideas, not action.

He turned around to head back to the arcade to meet the police car. But then a thought occurred to him: that this quest of his maybe wasn't so out of character, after all. Maybe it was less a case of silly masculine preening than an acknowledgment of a legitimate aspect of his nature: answering questions, unraveling mysteries, solving puzzles. Exactly what Jonathan Boling had always done: understanding society, the human heart and mind.

One more block. What could it hurt? The police were on their way. Maybe he'd find somebody on the street who'd noticed the boy get into a car or climb through a window of a nearby house.

The professor turned back and started down the gray, gritty alley toward the water. He wondered when he'd see Kathryn again. Soon, he hoped.

It was in fact the image of her green eyes that was prominently in his mind when the boy leapt out from behind the Dumpster three feet away and got Boling in a neck lock. Smelling unwashed clothing and adolescent sweat, he choked as the silver blade of the knife began its leisurely transit to his throat.

Chapter 30

Speaking on her phone, Kathryn Dance sped up to the front of James Chilton's house in Carmel. Parking, she said, "Thanks again," to the caller and hung up. She parked and walked up to the Monterey County Sheriff's Office car, in which a deputy sat on guard detail.

She approached him. "Hey, Miguel."

"Agent Dance, how you doing? Everything's quiet here."

"Good. Mr. Chilton's back, isn't he?"

"Yes."

"Do me a favor?"

"You bet."

"Get out of the car and just stand here, maybe lean against the door, so people can get a good look at you."

"Something going down?"

"I'm not sure. Just stay there for a bit. Whatever happens, don't move."

He seemed uncertain but climbed out of the car.

Dance now walked up to the front door and pushed the buzzer. The musician within her detected the slightly flat tone of the final chime.

Chilton opened the door and blinked to see Dance. "Is everything okay?"

Then, after a glance over her shoulder, Dance pulled her handcuffs out of their holster.

Chilton glanced down. "What-?" he gasped.

"Turn around and put your hands behind your back."

"What is this?"

"Now! Just do it."

"This is-"

She took him by the shoulder and turned him around. He started to speak, but she simply said, "Shh." And ratcheted on the cuffs. "You're under arrest for criminal trespass on private property."

"What? Whose?"

"Arnold Brubaker's land-the site of the desalination plant."

"Wait, you mean yesterday?"

"Right."

"You let me go!"

"You weren't arrested then. Now, you are." She recited the Miranda warning.

A dark sedan sped up the street, turned and ground along the gravel drive up to the house. Dance recognized it as a unit of the Highway Patrol. The two officers in the front-bulky men-glanced at Dance curiously and climbed out. They looked over at the county sheriff's office car and Deputy Miguel Herrera, who touched his radio on his hip as if wanting to call somebody to see what this was all about.

Together the new arrivals walked toward Dance and her prisoner. They noted the handcuffs.

In a perplexed voice, Dance said, "Who're you?"

"Well," the older of the troopers said, "CHP. Who are you, ma'am?"

She fished for her wallet in her purse and showed her ID to the troopers. "I'm Kathryn Dance, CBI. What do you want here?"

"We're here to take James Chilton into custody."

"My prisoner?"

"Yours?"

"That's right. We just arrested him." She shot a glance to Herrera.

"Wait a minute here," Chilton barked.

"Quiet," Dance ordered.

The senior trooper said, "We have an arrest warrant for James Chilton. And a warrant to take possession of his computers, files, business records. Anything related to The Chilton Report."

They displayed the paperwork.

"That's ridiculous," Chilton said. "What the fuck is going on here?"

Dance repeated bluntly, "Quiet." Then to the troopers: "What's the charge?"

"Criminal trespass."

"At Arnold Brubaker's property?"

"That's right."

She laughed. "That's what I just arrested him for."

Both of the troopers stared at her then at Chilton, buying time, and then, independently, they nodded. Apparently there was, in their experience, no precedent for anything like this.

"Well," one of the officers contributed, "we have a warrant."

"I understand. But he's already been arrested and the CBI already has jurisdiction over his files and computers. We're collecting them in a few minutes."

"This is fucking bullshit," Chilton blurted.

"Sir, I'd watch your language," the younger, and bigger, of the troopers snapped.

The silence roared.

Then Kathryn Dance squinted a smile into her face. "Wait. Who's the one requested the warrant? Was it Hamilton Royce?"

"That's right. The AG's office in Sacramento."

"Oh, sure." Dance was relaxing. "I'm sorry, this's a misunderstanding. I was the senior officer on the trespass on call but we had an affidavit issue and I had to delay taking him into custody. I mentioned it to Hamilton. He probably thought I was so busy on the Roadside Cross Case-"

"That Mask Killer. That thing. You're running that?"

"Sure am."

"Freaky."

"It is, yep," Dance agreed. Then continued, "Hamilton probably figured I was so busy on that one that he'd take over on the trespass." A disparaging nod of the head. "But frankly, Mr. Chilton pissed me off so much I wanted to finish up the collar myself."

She gave a conspiratorial smile that the troopers joined in briefly. Then she continued, "This's my fault. I should've told him. Let me make a call." She pulled her phone off her belt and dialed. Then cocked her head. "This's Agent Dance," she said and explained about her arrest of James Chilton. Silence for a moment. "I've already collared him… We've got the paperwork back at HQ… Sure." She nodded. "Good," Dance said in a conclusory tone, and disconnected on the woman's voice explaining that the temperature was fifty-six degrees and rain was forecast on the Monterey Peninsula tomorrow.

"It's all set, we'll process him." A smile. "Unless you really want to cool your heels at the Salinas lockup for four hours."

"Nup, that's okay, Agent Dance. You need any help getting him in the car?" The big trooper was looking over James Chilton as if the blogger weighed a hundred pounds more and was capable of breaking through the cuff chain with a flex of his muscles.

"No, that's okay. We'll handle it."

With a nod, the men walked off, climbed in their car and left.

"Listen to me," Chilton growled, his face red. "This is bullshit and you know it."

"Just relax, okay?" Dance turned him around and undid the cuffs.

"What's this all about?" He was rubbing his wrists. "I thought you were arresting me."

"I did. I've decided to let you go, though."

"Are you fucking with me?"

"No, I'm saving you." Dance slipped the cuffs back into her holster. Smiling, she waved to a very perplexed Herrera. He nodded back.

"You were being set up, James."

Not long before, Dance had gotten a call from her assistant. Maryellen had grown suspicious when Charles Overby called once to see if Dance was in the office and then again to ask her to come to his office to discuss her job satisfaction, something he'd never done.

En route to Overby's office, the woman had stalled and remained in the Gals' Wing, hiding in a side corridor. Hamilton Royce slipped into her boss's office. After five minutes or so he'd then stepped outside and made a cell phone call. Maryellen had gotten close enough to overhear part of it-Royce was calling a magistrate in Sacramento, who was apparently a friend, and asking for an arrest warrant against Chilton. Something to do with trespass.

Maryellen didn't understand the implications of what had happened, but she called Dance immediately with the news, then continued to Overby's office.

Dance gave Chilton an abbreviated version of the story, omitting Royce's name.

"Who was behind it?" he fumed.

She knew the blogger would, in a posting, go after whoever was behind his arrest and she couldn't afford the kind of publicity nightmare that would create. "I'm not divulging that. All I'll say is that some people want your blog suspended until we catch Travis."

"Why?"

She said sternly, "For the same reasons I wanted it shut down. To keep people from posting and giving Travis more targets." A faint smile. "And because it looks bad for the state if we're not doing everything we can to protect the public-which means shutting you down."

"And stopping the blog is good for the public? I expose corruption and problems; I don't encourage them." Then he climbed off the soapbox. "And you arrested me so they couldn't serve the warrant?"

"Yep."

"What's going to happen?"

"One of two things. The troopers'll go back home and report to their supervisor that they can't serve the warrant because you're already under arrest. And it'll go away."

"What's the second thing?"

A collision between excrement and fan, Dance reflected. She said nothing, merely shrugged.

But Chilton got it. "You put yourself on the line for me? Why?"

"I owe you. You've been cooperating with us. And if you want to know another reason: I don't agree with all of your politics but I do agree you have the right to say what you want. If you're wrong, you can get sued and the courts'll decide. But I'm not going to be part of some vigilante movement to shut you up because people don't like your approach."

"Thank you," he said and the gratitude was obvious in his eyes.

They shook hands. Chilton said, "Better get back online."

Dance returned to the street and thanked Miguel Herrera, the perplexed deputy, and returned to her car. She called TJ and left a message to run a full backgrounder on Hamilton Royce. She wanted to know what kind of enemy she'd just made.

Part of which question was apparently about to be answered; her phone buzzed and Caller ID showed Overby's number.

Oh, well, she'd guessed all along it would be door number two.

Shit and fan…

"Charles."

"Kathryn, I think we have a bit of a problem. Hamilton Royce is here with me on speaker."

She was tempted to hold the phone away from her ear.

"Agent Dance, what's this about Chilton getting arrested by you? And the CHP not being able to serve their warrant?"

"I didn't have any options."

"No options? What do you mean?"

Struggling to keep her voice calm, she said, "I've decided I don't want to shut the blog down. We know Travis reads it. Chilton's asked him to come in. The boy may see that and try to contact the blog. Maybe negotiate a surrender."

"Well, Kathryn." Overby sounded desperate. "On the whole, Sacramento's thinking it's still better to close down the thing. Don't you agree?"

"Not really, Charles. Now, Hamilton, you went through my files, didn't you?"

A land mine of a pause. "I didn't review anything that wasn't public knowledge."

"Doesn't matter. It was a breach of professional responsibility. It might even be a crime."

"Kathryn, really," Overby protested.

"Agent Dance." Royce was sounding calm now, ignoring Overby as efficiently as she was. She recalled a common observation during her interrogations: A man in control is a dangerous man. "People are dying, and Chilton doesn't care. And, yes, it's making us all look bad, from you to Charles to the CBI to Sacramento. All of us. And I don't mind admitting it."

Dance had no interest in the substance of his argument. "Hamilton, you try something like this again, with or without a warrant, and the matter'll end up with the attorney general and the governor. And the press."

Overby was saying, "Hamilton, what she means is-"

"I think he's pretty clear on what I mean, Charles."

Her phone then beeped with a text message from Michael O'Neil.

"I've got to take this." She disconnected the call, cutting off both her boss and Royce.

She lifted her phone and read the stark words on the screen.

K- Travis spotted in New Monterey. Police lost him. But have report of another victim. He's dead. In Carmel, near end of Cypress Hills Road, west. I'm en route. Meet you there? -M

She texted, Yes. And ran for the car.

FLICKING ON THE flashing lights, which she tended to forget the car even had-investigators like her rarely had to play Hot Pursuit-Dance sped into the afternoon gloom.

Another victim…

This attack would have happened not long after they'd foiled the attempt on Donald Hawken and his wife. She'd been right. The boy, probably frustrated that he hadn't been successful, had gone on immediately to find another victim.

She found the turnoff, braked hard and eased the long car down the winding country road. The vegetation was lush but the overcast leached the color from the plants and gave Dance the impression that she was in some otherworldly place.

Like Aetheria, the land in DimensionQuest.

She pictured the image of Stryker in front of her, holding his sword comfortably. like really w4nt to learn, what can u t33ch me?

2 die…

Pictured too the boy's crude drawing of the blade piercing her chest.

Then a flash caught her eyes: white lights and colored ones.

She drove up and parked beside the other cars-Monterey County Sheriff's Office-and a Crime Scene van. Dance climbed out, headed into the chaos. "Hey." She nodded to Michael O'Neil, greatly relieved to see him, even if this was only a temporary respite from the Other Case.

"You check out the scene?" she asked.

"Just got here myself," he explained.

They walked toward where the body lay, covered with a dark green tarp. Yellow police tape starkly marked the spot.

"Somebody spotted him?" she asked an MCSO deputy.

"That's right, Agent Dance. Nine-one-one call in New Monterey. But by the time our people got there he was gone. So was the good citizen."

"Who's the vic?" O'Neil asked.

He replied, "I don't know yet. It was pretty bad, apparently. Travis used the knife this time. Not the gun. And looks like he took his time."

The deputy pointed into a grass-filled area about fifty feet away from the road.

She and O'Neil walked over the sandy ground. In a minute or two they arrived at the taped-off area, where a half dozen uniformed and plainclothes officers were standing, and a Crime Scene officer crouched beside the corpse covered by a green tarp.

They nodded a greeting to an MCSO deputy, a round Latino man Dance had worked with for years.

"What's the word on the vic's ID?" she asked.

"A deputy's got his wallet." The deputy indicated the body. "They're checking it out now. All we know so far is male, forties."

Dance looked around. "Wasn't killed here, I assume?" There were no residences or other buildings nearby. Nor would the victim have been hiking or jogging here-there were no trails.

"Right." The officer continued, "There wasn't much blood. Looks like the perp drove the body here and dumped it. Found some tire tracks in the sand. We're guessing Travis boosted the guy's own car, threw him in the trunk. Like that first girl. Tammy. Only this time, he didn't wait for the tide. Stabbed him to death. As soon as we've got the deceased's ID, we can put out a call on the wheels."

"You're sure Travis did it?" Dance asked.

The deputy offered, "You'll see."

"And he was tortured?"

"Looks that way."

They paused at the Crime Scene tape about ten feet from the corpse. The CS officer, in a jumpsuit like a spaceman, was taking measurements. He glanced up and saw the two officers. He nodded a greeting and through his protective goggles lifted an eyebrow. "You want to see?" he called.

"Yes," Dance replied, wondering if he asked thinking a woman might not be comfortable seeing the carnage. Yes, in this day and age, it still happened.

Though, in fact, she was steeling herself for the sight. The nature of her work involved the living, mostly. She'd never grown fully immune to the images of death.

He began to lift the cover when a voice called from behind her, "Agent Dance?"

She glanced back to see another officer in uniform walking up to her. He was holding something in his hand.

"Yes?"

"Do you know a Jonathan Boling?"

"Jon? Yes." She was staring at a business card in his hand. And recalled that somebody had taken the victim's wallet to verify ID.

A horrifying thought: Was the victim Jon?

Her mind did one of its leaps-A to B to X. Had the professor learned something from Travis's computer or in his search for victims and, with Dance away, decided to investigate by himself?

Please, no!

She glanced briefly at O'Neil, horror in her eyes, and lunged for the body.

"Hey!" the CS tech shouted. "You'll contaminate the scene!"

She ignored him and flung back the tarp.

And gasped.

With mixed relief and horror, she stared down.

It wasn't Boling.

The lean bearded man in slacks and a white shirt had been repeatedly stabbed. One glazed eye was half open. A cross was carved into his forehead. Rose petals, red ones, were scattered over his body.

"But where did that come from?" she asked the other deputy, nodding at Boling's business card, her voice shaking.

"I was trying to tell you-he's at the road block, over there. Just drove up. He wants to see you. It's urgent."

"I'll talk to him in a minute." Dance inhaled deeply, shaken.

Another deputy came up with the dead man's wallet in a plastic bag. "Got the ID. His name's Mark Watson. He's a retired engineer. Went out to the store a few hours ago. Never got home."

"Who is he?" O'Neil asked. "Why was he picked?"

Dance dug into her jacket pocket and retrieved the list of everyone mentioned in the blog who might be a potential target.

"He posted in the blog-a reply to the 'Power to the People' thread. About the nuclear plant. It doesn't agree or disagree with Chilton about the location of the plant. It's neutral."

"So anybody connected to the blog at all could be at risk now."

"I'd think so."

O'Neil looked her over. He touched her arm. "You okay?"

"Just…kind of a scare."

She found herself thumbing Jon Boling's card. She told O'Neil she was going to see what he wanted and began down the path, her heart only now returning to a normal beat from the fright.

At the roadside she found the professor standing beside his car, the door open. She frowned. In the passenger seat was a teenager with spiky hair. He was wearing an Aerosmith T-shirt under a dark brown jacket.

Boling waved to her. She was struck by the look of urgency on his face, unusual for him.

And by the intensity of the relief she felt that he was all right.

Which gave way to curiosity when she saw what was stuck in the waistband of his slacks; she couldn't tell for certain but it seemed to be the hilt of a large knife.

Chapter 31

Dance, Boling and the teenager were in her office at the CBI. Jason Kepler was a seventeen-year-old student in Carmel South High, and he, not Travis, was Stryker.

Travis had created the avatar years ago, but he'd sold it online to Jason, along with "like, a shitload of Reputation, Life Points and Resources."

Whatever those were.

Dance recalled that Boling had told her that players could sell their avatars and other accoutrements of the game.

The professor explained about his finding a reference in Travis's data to the Lighthouse Arcade's hours of operation.

Dance was grateful for the man's brilliant detective work. (Though she was absolutely going to dress him down later for not calling 911 immediately upon learning that the boy was at the arcade and for going after him alone.) On her desk behind them, in an evidence envelope, was the kitchen knife that Jason had used to threaten Boling. It was a deadly weapon and he was technically guilty of assault and battery. Still, since Boling hadn't actually been injured and the boy had voluntarily handed over the blade to the professor, she was probably going to be satisfied with giving the kid a stern warning.

Boling now explained what had happened: he himself had been the victim of a sting, orchestrated by the young teen who sat before them now. "Tell her what you told me."

"What it is, I was worried about Travis," Jason told them wide-eyed. "You don't know what it's like seeing somebody who's in your family getting attacked like he was, in the blog."

"Your family?"

"Yeah. In the game, in DQ, we're brothers. I mean, we've never met or anything, but I know him real good."

"Never met?"

"Well, sure, but not in the real world, only in Aetheria. I wanted to help him. But I had to find him first. I tried calling and IM'ing and I couldn't get through. All I could think of was hanging out at the arcade. Maybe I could talk him into turning himself in."

"With a knife?" Dance asked.

His shoulders lifted, then sagged. "I figured it couldn't hurt."

The boy was skinny and unhealthily pale. Here it was summer vacation and, ironically, he probably got outside now far less often than in the fall and winter, when he'd have to go to school.

Boling took over the narrative. "Jason was in the Lighthouse Arcade when I got there. The manager was a friend of his and when I asked about Stryker he pretended to go check out something but instead he told Jason about me."

"Hey, I'm sorry, man. I wasn't going to stab you or anything. I just wanted to find out who you were and if you had any idea where Travis was. I didn't know you were with this Bureau of Investigation thing."

Boling gave a sheepish smile at the impersonation-of-an-officer part. He added that he knew she'd want to talk to Jason but he thought it best to take him directly to her, rather than wait for the city police to show up.

"We just jumped in the car and called TJ. He told us where you were."

It was a good decision, and only marginally illegal.

Dance now said, "Jason, we don't want Travis to get hurt either. And we don't want him to hurt anybody else. What can you tell us about where he might go?"

"He could be anywhere. He's really smart, you know. He knows how to live outside in the woods. He's an expert." The boy noted their confusion and said, "See, DQ's a game, but it's also real. I mean, you're in the Southern Mountains, it gets like fifty below zero, and you have to learn how to stay warm and if you don't you'll freeze to death. And you have to get food and water and everything. You learn what plants're safe and what animals you can eat. And how to cook and store food. I mean, they have real recipes. You have to cook them right in the game or they don't work." He laughed. "There've been newbies who've tried to play and they're like, 'All we want to do is fight trolls and demons,' and they end up starving to death because they couldn't take care of themselves."

"You play with other people, don't you? Could any of them know where Travis might be?"

"Like, I asked everybody in the family and nobody knows where he is."

"How many are in your family?"

"About twelve of us. But him and me are the only ones in California."

Dance was fascinated. "And you all live together? In Aetheria?"

"Yeah. I know them better than I know my real brothers." He gave a grim laugh. "And in Aetheria, they don't beat me up and steal money from me."

Dance was curious. "You have parents?"

"In the real world?" He shrugged, a gesture Dance interpreted as meaning "Sort of."

She said, "No, in the game."

"Some families do. We don't." He gave a wistful look. "We're happier that way."

She was smiling. "You know, you and I've met, Jason."

The boy looked down. "Yeah, I know. Mr. Boling told me. I kinda killed you. Sorry. I thought you were just some newb who was dissing us because of Trav. I mean our family-well, our whole guild order-has been totally dissed because of him and all the posts on that blog. It's happening a lot. A raiding party from the north traveled all the way from Crystal Island to wipe us out. We made this allegiance and stopped them. But Morina was killed. She was our sister. She's come back but she lost all her Resources."

The skinny boy shrugged. "I get pushed around a lot, you know. At school. That's why I picked an avatar that's a Thunderer, a warrior. Kind of makes me feel better. Nobody fucks with me there."

"Jason, one thing that might be helpful: if you could give us the strategies Travis would use to attack people. How he'd stalk them. Weapons. Anything that might help us figure out how to outthink him."

But the boy seemed to be troubled. "You really don't know very much about Travis, do you?"

Dance was about to say they knew all too much. But interviewers know when to let the subject take over. With a glance at Boling, she said, "No, I guess we don't."

"I want to show you something," Jason said, standing up.

"Where?"

"In Aetheria."

KATHRYN DANCE ONCE again assumed the identity of the avatar Greenleaf, who was fully resurrected.

As Jason typed, the character appeared on the screen in a forest clearing. As before, the scenery was beautiful, the graphics astonishingly clear. Dozens of people were wandering around, some armed, some carrying bags or packs, some leading animals.

"This is Otovius, where Travis and me hang out a lot. It's a nice place… You mind?"

He bent forward toward the keys.

"No," Dance told him. "Go ahead."

He typed, then received a message: "Kiaruya is not logged on."

"Bummer."

"Who's that?" Boling asked.

"My wife."

"Your what?" Dance asked the seventeen-year-old.

He blushed. "We got married a couple months ago."

She laughed in astonishment.

"Last year I met this girl in the game. She's totally cool. She's been all the way through the Southern Mountains. By herself! She didn't die once. And me and her hit it off. We went on some quests. I proposed. Well, sort of she did. But I wanted to too. And we got married."

"Who is she really?"

"Some girl in Korea. But she got a bad grade in a couple of her classes-"

"In the real world?" Boling asked.

"Yeah. So her parents took away her account."

"You're divorced?"

"Naw, just on hold for a while. Till she gets her math scores up to a B again." Jason added, "Funny. Most people who get married in DQ stay married. In the real world a lot of our parents're divorced. I hope she gets back online soon. I miss her." He jabbed a finger at the screen. "Anyway, let's go to the house."

Under Jason's direction, Dance's avatar maneuvered around the landscape, past dozens of people and creatures.

Jason led them to a cliff. "We could walk there, but that'd, you know, take a while. You can't pay for a Pegasus ride because you haven't earned any gold yet. But I can give you transport points." He began to type. "It's like my dad's frequent flier thing."

He keyboarded some more codes and then had the avatar climb on the winged horse and off they flew. The flight was breathtaking. They soared over the landscape, around thick clouds. Two suns burned in the azure sky and occasionally other flying creatures would cruise past, as did dirigibles and bizarre flying machines. Below, Dance saw cities and villages. And, in a few places, fires.

"Those're battles," Jason said. "Look pretty epic." He sounded as if he regretted missing the chance to lop off some heads.

A minute later they arrived at a seashore-the ocean was bright green-and slowly eased in for a landing on a rolling hillside overlooking the turbulent water.

Dance remembered Caitlin saying that Travis liked the shoreline because it reminded him of some place in a game he played.

Jason showed her how to dismount the horse. And, under her own controls, she navigated Greenleaf toward where Jason pointed, a cottage.

"That's the house. We all built it together."

Like a barn raising in the 1800s, Dance reflected.

"But Travis earned all the money and the supplies. He paid for it. We hired trolls to do the heavy work," he added without a bit of irony.

When her avatar was at the door, Jason gave her a verbal password. She spoke it into the computer's microphone and the door opened. They walked inside.

Dance was shocked. It was a beautiful, spacious house, filled with bizarre but cozy furniture, out of a Dr. Seuss book. There were walkways and stairs that led to various rooms, windows of odd shapes, a huge, burning fireplace, a fountain and a large pool.

A couple of pets-some goofy hybrid of a goat and salamander-walked around croaking.

"It's nice, Jason. Very nice."

"Yeah, well, we make cool homes in Aetheria 'cause where we live, I mean, in the real world, our places aren't so nice, you know. Okay, like, here's what I wanted to show you. Go there." He directed her past a small pond populated with shimmery green fish. Her avatar stopped at a large metal door. It was barred with several locks. Jason gave her another pass code and the door slowly opened-accompanied by creaking sound effects. She sent Greenleaf through the doorway, down a flight of stairs and into what looked like a drugstore combined with an emergency room.

Jason looked at Dance and noticed she was frowning.

He said, "Understand?"

"Not exactly."

"That's what I meant about knowing Travis. He's not about weapons and battle strategy or any of that. He's about this. It's his healing room."

"Healing room?" Dance asked.

The boy explained, "Travis hated fighting. He created Stryker as a warrior when he first started playing, but he didn't like that. That's why he sold him to me. He's a healer, not a fighter. And I mean a healer at the forty-ninth level. You know how good that makes him? He's the best. He's awesome."

"A healer?"

"That's his avatar's name. Medicus-it's some foreign language for 'doctor.' "

"Latin," Boling said.

"Ancient Rome?" Jason asked.

"Right."

"Sweet. Anyway, Travis's other professions are herb growing and potion making. This is where people come to be treated. It's like a doctor's office."

"Doctor?" Dance mused. She rose from her desk, found the stack of papers they'd taken from Travis's room and flipped through them. Rey Carraneo had been right-the pictures were of cut-up bodies. But they weren't the victims of crimes; they were of patients during surgery. They were very well done, technically accurate.

Jason continued, "Characters from all over Aetheria would come to see him. Even the game designers know about him. They asked him for advice in creating NPCs. He's a total legend. He's made thousands of dollars by making these healing potions, buffers, life regenerators and power spells."

"In real money?"

"Oh, yeah. He sells them on eBay. Like how I bought Stryker."

Dance recalled the strongbox they'd found under the boy's bed. So this was how he'd made the cash.

Jason tapped the screen. "Oh, and there?" He was indicating a glass case in which rested a crystal ball on the end of a gold stick. "That's the scepter of healing. It took him, like, fifty quests to earn it. Nobody ever got one before, in the whole history of DQ." Jason winced. "He almost lost it once…" An awestruck expression washed over his face. That was one messed-up night."

The boy sounded as if the event were a tragedy in real life.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, Medicus and me and some of us in the family were on this quest in the Southern Mountains, which're like three miles high and really dangerous places. We were looking for this magical tree. The Tree of Seeing, it's called. And, this was sweet, we found the home of Ianna, the Elvish queen, who everybody's heard of but never seen. She's way famous."

"She's an NPC, right?" Boling asked.

"Yeah."

He reminded Dance, "A nonplayer character. One that's created by the game itself."

Jason seemed offended at the characterization. "But the algorithm is awesome! She's beyond any bot you've ever seen."

The professor nodded an apologetic concession.

"So we're there and just hanging and talking and she's telling us about the Tree of Seeing and how we can find it, and all of a sudden we're attacked by this raiding party from the Northern Forces. And everybody's fighting, and this asshole shoots the queen with a special arrow. She's going to die. Trav tries to save her but his healing isn't working. So he decides to Shift. We're like, no, man, don't do it! But he did anyway."

The boy was speaking with such reverence that Dance found herself leaning forward, her leg bobbing with tension. Boling too was staring at him.

"What's that, Jason? Go on."

"Okay, what it is, sometimes, if somebody's dying, you can submit your life to the Entities in the High Realm. It's called Shifting. And the Entities start taking your life force and giving it to the person who's dying. Maybe the person will come back before your life force is gone. But it might take all your life force and you'll die, and they'll die too. Only when you die because you've Shifted, you lose everything. I mean everything you've done and earned, all your points, all your Resources, all your Reputation, for as long as you've been playing the game. They all, like, just go away. If Travis'd died, he would've lost the scepter, his house, his gold, his flying horses… He would have to start over like a newbie."

"He did that?"

Jason nodded. "It was, like, way close. He was almost out of life force, but the queen revived. She kissed him. That was, like, epic! And then the elves and us got together and kicked some Northern Force ass. Man, that night rocked. It was epic win. Everybody who plays the game still talks about it."

Dance was nodding. "Okay, Jason, thanks. You can log off."

"Like, you don't want to play anymore? You were kind of getting a feel for how to move."

"Maybe later."

The boy tapped the keys and the game closed.

Dance glanced at her watch. "Jon, could you take Jason back home? There's somebody I need to talk to."

A to B to X…

Chapter 32

I'd like to see Caitlin, please."

"You're…?" asked Virginia Gardner, the mother of the girl who'd survived the June 9 car crash.

Dance identified herself. "I spoke to your daughter the other day at summer school."

"Oh, you're the policewoman. You arranged for the guard for Cait at the hospital the other day, and out in front of our house."

"That's right."

"Have you found Travis?"

"No, I-"

"Is he nearby?" the woman asked breathlessly, looking around.

"No, he's not. I'd just like to ask your daughter a few more questions."

The woman invited Dance into the entryway of the huge contemporary house in Carmel. Dance recalled that Caitlin was headed for some nice undergrad and medical schools. Whatever Dad or Mom did, it seemed they could afford the tuition.

Dance surveyed the massive living room. There were stark abstracts on the walls-two huge, spiky black-and-yellow paintings and one with bloody red splotches. She found them troubling to look at. She thought how different this was from the cozy feel of Travis's and Jason's house in the DimensionQuest game.

Yeah, well, we make cool homes in Aetheria 'cause where we live, I mean, in the real world, our places aren't so nice, you know…

The girl's mother disappeared and a moment later returned with Caitlin, in jeans and a lime green shell under a tight-fitting white sweater.

"Hi," the teenager said uneasily.

"Hello, Caitlin. How you feeling?"

"Okay."

"Hoping you'll have a minute or two. I have a few follow-up questions."

"Sure, I guess."

"Can we sit down somewhere?

"We can go in the sunroom," Mrs. Gardner said.

They passed an office and Dance saw a University of California diploma on the wall. Medical school. Caitlin's father.

The mother and daughter on the couch, Dance in a straight-backed chair. She scooted it closer and said, "I wanted to give you an update. There was another killing today. Have you heard?"

"Oh, no," Caitlin's mother whispered.

The girl said nothing. She closed her eyes. Her face, framed by limp blond hair, seemed to grow paler.

"Really," the mother whispered angrily, "I'll never see how you could go out with somebody like that."

"Mom," Caitlin whined, "what do you mean, 'go out'? Christ, I never went out with Travis. I never would. Somebody like him?"

"I just mean he's obviously dangerous."

"Caitlin," Dance interrupted. "We're really desperate to find him. We're just not having any luck. I'm learning more about him from friends, but-"

Her mother again: "Those Columbine kids."

"Please, Mrs. Gardner."

An affronted look, but she fell silent.

"I told you everything I could think of the other day."

"Just a few more questions. I won't be long." She scooted the chair closer yet and pulled out a notebook. She opened it and flipped through the pages carefully, pausing once or twice.

Caitlin was immobile as she stared at the notebook.

Dance smiled, looking into the girl's eyes. "Now, Caitlin, think back to the night of the party."

"Uh-huh."

"Something interesting's come up. I interviewed Travis before he ran off. I took some notes." A nod at the notebook resting on her lap.

"You did? You talked to him?"

"That's right. I didn't pay much attention until I'd spoken to you and some other people. But now I'm hoping to piece together some clues as to where he's hiding."

"How hard could it be to find-" Caitlin's mother began, as if she couldn't stop herself. But she fell silent under Dance's stern glance.

The agent continued, "Now, you and Travis talked some, right? That night."

"Not really."

Dance was frowning slightly and flipping through her notes.

The girl added, "Well, except when it was time to leave. I meant during the party he was hanging by himself mostly."

Dance said, "On the ride home you did, though." Tapping the notebook.

"Yeah, talked some. I don't remember too much. It was all a blur, with the crash and all."

"I'm sure it was. But I'm going to read you a couple of statements and I'd like you to fill in the details. Tell me if anything jogs your memory about what Travis said on the drive home, before the accident."

"I guess."

Dance consulted her notebook. "Okay, here's the first one: 'The house was pretty sweet but the driveway freaked me out.' " She looked up. "I was thinking maybe that meant Travis had a fear of heights."

"Yeah, that's what he was talking about. The driveway was on this hillside, and we were talking about it. Travis said he'd always had this fear of falling. He looked at the driveway and he said why didn't they have a guardrail on it."

"Good. That's helpful." Another smile. Caitlin reciprocated. Dance returned to the notes. "And this one? 'I think boats rule. I've always wanted one.' "

"Oh, that? Yeah. We were talking about Fisherman's Wharf. Travis really thought it'd be cool to sail to Santa Cruz." She looked away. "I think he wanted to ask me to go with him, but he was too shy."

Dance smiled. "So he might be hiding out on a boat somewhere."

"Yeah, that could be it. I think he said something about how neat it would be to stow away on a boat."

"Good… Here's another one. 'She has more friends than me. I only have one or two I could hang out with.' "

"Yeah, I remember him saying that. I felt sorry for him, that he didn't have many friends. He talked about it for a while."

"Did he mention names? Anybody he might be staying with? Think. It's important."

The teenager squinted and her hand rubbed her knee. Then sighed. "Nope."

"That's okay, Caitlin."

"I'm sorry." A faint pout.

Dance kept the smile on her face. She was steeling herself for what was coming next. It would be difficult-for the girl, for her mother, for Dance herself. But there was no choice.

She leaned forward. "Caitlin, you're not being honest with me."

The girl blinked. "What?"

Virginia Gardner muttered, "You can't say that to my daughter."

"Travis didn't tell me any of those things," Dance said, her voice neutral. "I made them up."

"You lied!" the mother snapped.

No, she hadn't, not technically. She'd crafted her words carefully and never said they were actual statements from Travis Brigham.

The girl had gone pale.

The mother grumbled, "What is this, some kind of trap?"

Yes, that was exactly what it was. Dance had a theory and she needed to prove it true or false. Lives were at stake.

Dance ignored the mother and said to Caitlin, "But you were playing along as if Travis had said all of those things to you in the car."

"I…I was just trying to be helpful. I felt bad I didn't know more."

"No, Caitlin. You thought you might very well have talked with him about them in the car. But you couldn't remember because you were intoxicated."

"No!"

"I'm going to ask you to leave now," the girl's mother blurted.

"I'm not through," Dance growled, shutting up Virginia Gardner.

The agent assessed: with her science background-and her survival skills in this household-Caitlin had a thinking and sensing personality type, according to the Myers-Briggs index. She struck Dance as probably more introverted than extraverted. And, though her liar's personality would fluctuate, she was at the moment an adaptor.

Lying for self-preservation.

If Dance had had more time she might have drawn the truth out slowly and in more depth. But with the Myers-Briggs typing and Caitlin's personality of adaptor, Dance assessed she could push and not have to coddle, the way she had with Tammy Foster.

"You were drinking at the party."

"I-"

"Caitlin, people saw you."

"I had a few drinks, sure."

"Before coming here I talked to several students who were there. They said that you, Vanessa and Trish drank almost a fifth of tequila after you saw Mike with Brianna."

"Well…okay, so what?"

"You're seventeen," her mother raged, "that's what!"

Dance said evenly, "I've called an accident reconstruction service, Caitlin. They're going to look over your car at the police impound lot. They measure things like seat and rearview mirror adjustment. They can tell the height of the driver."

The girl was completely still, though her jaw trembled.

"Caitlin, it's time to tell the truth. A lot depends on it. Other people's lives are at stake."

"What truth?" her mother whispered.

Dance kept her eyes on the girl. "Caitlin was driving the car that night. Not Travis."

"No!" Virginia Gardner wailed.

"Weren't you, Caitlin?"

The teenager said nothing for a minute. Then her head dropped, her chest collapsed. Dance read pain and defeat through her body. Her kinesic message was: Yes.

Her voice breaking, Caitlin said, "Mike left with that little slut hanging on him and her hand down the back of his jeans! I knew they went back to his place to fuck. I was going to drive there…I was going to…"

"All right," her mother ordered, "that's enough."

"Be quiet!" the girl yelled to her mother and started to sob. She turned to Dance. "Yes, I was driving!" The guilt had finally detonated within her.

Dance continued, "After the accident Travis pulled you into the passenger seat and he got in the driver's. He pretended he was driving. He did that to save you."

She thought back to the initial interview with Travis.

I didn't do anything wrong!

The boy's assertion had registered as deceptive to Dance. But she believed that he meant he was lying about the attack on Tammy; in fact what he'd done wrong was to lie about who was driving the car that night.

The idea had occurred to Dance when she was looking over the house of Travis-Medicus-and his family in Aetheria. The fact that the boy spent virtually every moment he could in the DimensionQuest game as a doctor and healer, not a killer like Stryker, made her begin to doubt the boy's tendency toward violence. And when she'd learned that his avatar had been willing to sacrifice his life for the Elvish queen, she realized that it was possible Travis had done the same in the real world-taking the blame for the car crash so that the girl he admired from afar wouldn't go to jail.

Caitlin, tears flowing from her closed eyes, pressed back into the couch, her body a knot of tension. "I just lost it. We got drunk and I wanted to go find Mike and tell him what a shit he was. Trish and Vanessa were more wasted than me so I was going to drive, but Travis followed me outside and kept trying to stop me. He tried to take the keys. But I wouldn't let him. I was so mad. Trish and Vanessa were in the backseat and Travis just jumped in the passenger seat and he was like, 'Pull over, Caitlin, come on, you can't drive.' But I was acting like an asshole.

"I just kept going, ignoring him. And then, I don't know what happened, we went off the road." Her voice faded and her expression was one of the most sorrowful and forlorn Kathryn Dance had ever seen, as she whispered, "And I killed my friends."

Caitlin's mother, her face white and bewildered, eased forward tentatively. She put her arm around her daughter's shoulders. The girl stiffened momentarily and then surrendered, sobbing and pressing her head against her mother's chest.

After a few minutes, the woman, crying herself, looked at Dance. "What's going to happen?"

"You and your husband should find a lawyer for Caitlin. Then call the police right away. She should surrender voluntarily. The sooner the better."

Caitlin wiped her face. "It's hurt so bad, lying. I was going to say something. I really, really was. But then people started to attack Travis-all those things they said-and I knew if I told the truth they'd attack me." She lowered her head. "I couldn't do it. All those things people'd say about me…they'd be up on their site forever."

More worried about her image than the deaths of her friends.

But Dance wasn't here to expiate the teenager's guilt. All she'd needed was confirmation of her theory that Travis had taken the fall for Caitlin. She rose and left the mother and daughter, offering the briefest of farewells.

Outside, jogging toward her car, she hit speed-dial button three-Michael O'Neil.

He answered on the second ring. Thank God the Other Case wasn't keeping him completely incommunicado.

"Hey." He sounded tired.

"Michael."

"What's wrong?" He'd grown alert; apparently her tone told stories too.

"I know you're swamped, but any chance I could come by? I need to brainstorm. I've found something."

"Sure. What?"

"Travis Brigham isn't the Roadside Cross Killer."

DANCE AND O'NEIL were in his office in the Monterey County Sheriff's Office in Salinas.

The windows looked out on the courthouse, in front of which were two dozen of the Life First protesters, along with the wattle-necked Reverend Fisk. Apparently bored with protesting in front of Stuart and Edie Dance's empty house, they'd moved to where they stood a chance of getting some publicity. Fisk was talking to the associate she'd seen earlier: the brawny redheaded bodyguard.

Dance turned away from the window and joined O'Neil at his unsteady conference table. The place was filled with ordered stacks of files. She wondered which were related to the Indonesian container case. O'Neil rocked back on two legs of a wooden chair. "So, let's hear it."

She explained quickly about how the investigation had led to Jason and then into the DimensionQuest game and ultimately to Caitlin Gardner and the confession that Travis had taken the fall for her.

"Infatuation?" he asked.

But Dance said, "Sure, that's part of it. But there's something else going on. She wants to go to medical school. That's important to Travis."

"Medical school?"

"Medicine, healing. In that game he plays, DimensionQuest, Travis is a famous healer. I'm thinking one of the reasons he protected her was because of that. His avatar is Medicus. A doctor. He feels a connection to her."

"That's a little farfetched, don't you think? After all, it's just a game."

"No, Michael, it's more than a game. The real world and the synth world are getting closer and closer, and people like Travis are living in both. If he's a respected healer in DimensionQuest he's not going to be a vindictive killer in the real world."

"So he takes the fall for Caitlin's crash, and whatever people say about him in the blog, the last thing in the world he wants is to draw attention to himself by attacking anybody."

"Exactly."

"But Kelley…before she passed out she told the medic that it was Travis who attacked her."

Dance shook her head. "I'm not sure she actually saw him. She assumed it was him, maybe because she knew she'd posted about him and the mask at her window was from the DimensionQuest game. And the rumors were he was behind the attacks. But I think the real killer was wearing a mask or got her from behind."

"How do you deal with the physical evidence? Planted?"

"Right. It'd be easy to read up online about Travis, to follow him, learn about his job at the bagel place, his bicycle, the fact that he plays DQ all the time. The killer could have made one of those masks, stolen the gun from Bob Brigham's truck, planted the trace evidence at the bagel shop and stolen the knife when the employees weren't looking. Oh, and something else: the M &M's? The flecks of wrapper at the crime scene?"

"Right."

"Had to be planted. Travis wouldn't eat chocolate. He bought packets for his brother. He was worried about his acne. He had books in his room about what foods to avoid. The real killer didn't know that. He must've seen Travis buy M &M's at some point and assumed they were a favorite candy, so he left some trace of the wrapper at the scene."

"And the sweatshirt fibers?"

"There was a posting in The Report about the Brigham family being so poor that they couldn't afford a washer and dryer. And it mentioned which laundromat they went to. I'm sure the real perp read that and staked the place out."

O'Neil nodded. "And stole a hooded sweatshirt when the mother was out or wasn't looking."

"Yep. And there were some pictures posted in the blog under Travis's name." O'Neil hadn't seen the drawings and she described them briefly, omitting the fact that the last one bore a resemblance to her. Dance continued, "They were crude, what an adult would think of a teenager's drawing. But I saw some pictures that Travis had done-of surgery. He's a great artist. Somebody else drew them."

"It would explain why nobody's been able to find the real killer, despite the manhunt. He pulls on a hoodie for the attack, then throws it and the bicycle in his trunk and drives off down the street like anybody else. Hell, he could be fifty years old. Or he could be a she, now that I think about it."

"Exactly."

The deputy fell silent for a moment. His thoughts had apparently arrived at the exact spot where Dance's awaited. "He's dead, isn't he?" the deputy asked. "Travis?"

Dance sighed at this harsh corollary of her theory. "It's possible. But I'm hoping not. I like to think he's just being held somewhere."

"The poor kid was in the wrong place at the wrong time." Rocking back and forth. "So, to find where the real perp is, we've got to figure out who's the intended victim. It's not somebody who posted an attack on Travis; they were just set up to mislead us."

"My theory?" Dance offered.

O'Neil looked at her with a coy smile. "Whoever the perp is, he's really after Chilton?"

"Yep. The perp was setting the stage, first going after people who'd criticized Travis, then those friendly with Chilton and finally the blogger himself."

"Somebody who doesn't want to be investigated."

Dance replied, "Or who wants revenge for something he'd posted in the past."

"Okay, all we need to find out is who wants to kill James Chilton," Michael O'Neil said.

Dance gave a sour laugh. "The easier question is: Who doesn't?"

Chapter 33

James?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line. The blogger said, "Agent Dance." His voice sounded weary. "More bad news?"

"I've found some evidence that suggests Travis isn't leaving the crosses."

"What?"

"I'm not positive, but the way things are looking, the boy could be a scapegoat and somebody's making it look like he's the killer."

Chilton whispered, "And he was innocent all along?"

"I'm afraid so." Dance explained what she'd learned-about who was really behind the wheel of the car on June 9-and about the likelihood of the evidence being planted.

"And I think you're the ultimate target," she added.

"Me?"

"You've posted some pretty inflammatory stories throughout your career. And you're writing now about controversial topics. I think some people'd be happy to see you stop. You've been threatened before, I assume."

"Plenty of times."

"Go back through your blog, find the names of everybody who's threatened you, who might want to get even for something you've said, or who's concerned that you're investigating something now they might not want published. Pick the most credible suspects. And go back a few years."

"Sure. I'll come up with a list. But you think I'm really at risk?"

"I do, yes."

He fell silent. "I'm worried about Pat and the boys. Do you think we should leave the area? Maybe go to our vacation house? It's in Hollister. Or get a hotel room?"

"Probably the hotel's safer. You'd be on record as owning the other house. I can arrange for you to check into one of the motels we use for witnesses. It'll be under a pseudonym."

"Thanks. Give us a few hours. Pat'll get things packed up, and we'll leave right after a meeting I have scheduled."

"Good."

She was about to hang up when Chilton said, "Wait. Agent Dance, one thing?"

"What?"

"I've got an idea-of who might be number one on the list."

"I'm ready to write."

"You won't need a pen and paper," Chilton replied.

DANCE AND REY Carraneo slowly approached the luxurious house of Arnold Brubaker, the man behind the desalination plant that would, according to James Chilton, destroy the Monterey Peninsula.

It was Brubaker whom Chilton fingered as the number-one choice of suspect. Either the desalination tsar himself, or a person hired by him. And Dance thought this was likely. She was online on the car's computer, reading the "Desalinate…and Devastate" thread on the June 28 posting.

http://www.thechiltonreport.com/html/june28.html

From Chilton's reporting and the posts, Dance deduced that the blogger had found out about the man's Las Vegas connections, which suggested organized crime, and the man's private real estate dealings, which hinted at secrets he might not want exposed.

"Ready?" Dance asked Carraneo as she logged off.

The young agent nodded, and they climbed from the car.

She knocked on the door.

Finally the red-faced entrepreneur-flushed from the sun, not booze, Dance deduced-answered the knock. He was surprised to see visitors. He blinked and said nothing for a moment. "From the hospital. You're…?"

"Agent Dance. This is Agent Carraneo."

His eyes zipped behind her.

Looking for backup? she wondered.

And if so, for her backup? Or Brubaker's own?

She felt a trickle of fear. People who kill for money were the most ruthless, in her estimation.

"We're following up on that incident with Mr. Chilton. You mind if I ask you a few questions?"

"What? That prick filed charges after all? I thought we-"

"No, no charges. Can we come in?"

The man remained suspicious. His eyes avoiding Dance's, he nodded them inside and blurted, "He's crazy, you know. I mean, I think he's certifiable."

Dance gave a noncommittal smile.

With another glance outside, Brubaker closed the door. He locked it.

They walked through the house, impersonal, many rooms empty of furniture. Dance believed she heard a creak from nearby. Then another from a different room.

Was the house settling, or did Brubaker have assistants here?

Assistants, or muscle?

They walked into an office filled with papers, blueprints, pictures, photographs, legal documents. A carefully constructed scale model of the desalination plant took up one of the tables.

Brubaker lifted several huge bound reports off chairs and gestured them to sit. He did too, behind a large desk.

Dance noticed certificates on the wall. There were also pictures of Brubaker with powerful-looking men in suits-politicians or other businesspeople. Interrogators love office walls; they reveal much about people. From these particular pictures she deduced that Brubaker was smart (degrees and professional course completions) and savvy politically (honors and keys from cities and counties). And tough; his company apparently had built desalination plants in Mexico and Colombia. Photos showed him surrounded by sunglassed, vigilant men-security guards. The men were the same in all of the pictures, which meant they were Brubaker's personal minders, not provided by the local government. One held a machine gun.

Were they the source of the creaks nearby-which she'd heard again, closer, it seemed?

Dance asked about the desalination project, and he launched into a lengthy sales pitch about the latest technology the plant would use. She caught words like "filtration," "membranes," "freshwater holding tanks." Brubaker gave them a short lecture on the reduced costs of new systems that was making desalination economically feasible.

She took in little information, but instead feigned interest and soaked up his baseline behavior.

Her first impression was that Brubaker didn't seem troubled at their presence, though High Machs were rarely moved by any human connections-whether romantic, social or professional. They even approached confrontation with equanimity. It was one aspect that made them so efficient. And potentially dangerous.

Dance would have liked more time to gather baseline information, but she felt a sense of urgency so she stopped his spiel and asked, "Mr. Brubaker, where were you at one p.m. yesterday and eleven a.m. today?"

The times of Lyndon Strickland's and Mark Watson's deaths.

"Well, why?" A smile. But Dance had no idea what was behind it.

"We're looking into certain threats against Mr. Chilton."

True, though not, of course, the whole story.

"Oh, he libels me, and now I'm accused?"

"We're not accusing you, Mr. Brubaker. But could you answer my question, please?"

"I don't have to. I can ask you to leave right now."

This was true. "You can refuse to cooperate. But we're hoping you won't."

"You can hope all you want," he snapped. The smile now grew triumphant. "I see what's going on here. Could it be that you got it all wrong, Agent Dance? That maybe it isn't some psychotic teenager who's been gutting people like in some bad horror film. But somebody who's been using the kid, setting him up to take the fall for killing James Chilton?"

That was pretty good, Dance thought. But did it mean that he was threatening them? If he was the "somebody" he referred to, then, yes, he was.

Carraneo stole a brief glance at her.

"Which means you've pretty much had the wool pulled over your eyes."

There were too many important rules in interviewing and interrogation for any of them to be number one, but high at the top was: Never let the personal insults affect you.

Dance said reasonably, "There's been a series of very serious crimes, Mr. Brubaker. We're looking into all possibilities. You have a grudge against James Chilton, and you've assaulted him once already."

"And, really," he said in a dismissive tone, "do you think it'd be the smartest thing in the world to get into a public brawl with a man I'm secretly trying to kill?"

Either very stupid or very smart, Dance responded silently. She then asked, "Where were you at the times I mentioned? You can tell us, or you can refuse and we'll keep investigating."

"You're as much of a prick as Chilton is. Actually, Agent Dance, you're worse. You hide behind your shield."

Carraneo stirred but said nothing.

She too was silent. Either he was going to tell them or he was going to throw them out.

Wrong, Dance realized. There was a third option, one that had been percolating since she'd been listening to the eerie creaks in the seemingly deserted house.

Brubaker was going for a weapon.

"I've had enough of this," he whispered, and, eyes wide in anger, yanked open the top desk drawer. His hand shot inside.

Dance flashed on her children's faces, then her husband's and then Michael O'Neil's.

Please, she thought, praying for speed…

"Rey, behind us! Cover!"

And when Brubaker looked up he was staring into the muzzle of her Glock pistol, while Carraneo was facing the opposite way, aiming at the door to the office.

Both agents were crouching.

"Jesus, take it easy!" he cried.

"Clear so far," Carraneo said.

"Check it out," she ordered.

The young man eased to the door and, standing to the side, pushed it open with his foot. "Clear."

He spun around to cover Brubaker.

"Lift your hands slowly," Dance said, her Glock steady enough. "If you have a weapon in your hand, drop it immediately. Don't lift it or lower it. Just drop it. If you don't-now-we will shoot. Understand?"

Arnold Brubaker gasped. "I don't have a gun."

She didn't hear a weapon hit the expensive floor, but he was lifting his hands very slowly.

Unlike Dance's, they weren't shaking at all.

In the developer's ruddy fingers was a business card, which he flicked toward her contemptuously. The agents holstered their weapons. They sat.

Dance looked at the card, reflecting that a situation that couldn't get any more awkward just had. On the card was the gold-embossed seal of the Department of Justice-the eagle and the fine print. She knew FBI agents' cards very well. She still had a large box of them at home: her husband's.

"At the time you mentioned, yesterday, I was meeting with Amy Grabe." Special agent in charge of the San Francisco office of the Bureau. "We were meeting here and at the site. From about eleven a.m. to three p.m."

Oh.

Brubaker said, "Desalination and water-based infrastructure projects are terrorist targets. I've been working with Homeland Security and the FBI to make sure that if the project gets under way, there'll be adequate security." He looked at her calmly and with contempt. The tip of his tongue touched a lip. "I'm hoping it will be federal officers involved. I'm losing confidence in the local constabulary."

Kathryn Dance wasn't about to apologize. She'd check with SAC Amy Grabe, whom she knew and, despite differences of opinion, respected. And even though an alibi wouldn't absolve him from hiring a thug to commit the actual crimes, it was hard for Dance to believe that a man working closely with the FBI and DHS would risk murder. Besides, everything about Brubaker's demeanor suggested he was telling the truth.

"All right, Mr. Brubaker. We'll check out what you're telling us."

"I hope you do."

"I appreciate your time."

"You can find your own way out," he snapped.

Carraneo cast a sheepish glance her way. Dance rolled her eyes.

When they were at the door, Brubaker said, "Wait. Hold on." The agents turned. "Well, was I right?"

"Right?"

"That you think somebody killed the boy and set him up to be the fall guy in some plot to kill Chilton?"

A pause. Then she thought: Why not? She answered, "We think it's possible, yes."

"Here." Brubaker jotted something on a slip of paper and offered it. "He's somebody you ought to be looking at. He'd love for the blog-and the blogger-to disappear."

Dance glanced at the note.

Wondering why she hadn't thought of the suspect herself.

Chapter 34

Parked on a dusty street near the small town of Marina, five miles north of Monterey, Dance was alone in her Crown Vic, on the phone with TJ.

"Brubaker?" she asked.

"No criminal record," he told her. And his work-and the alibi-with the FBI was confirmed.

He still might've hired somebody for the job, but this information did ease him out of the hot seat.

Attention was now on the man whose name Brubaker had given her. The name on the slip of paper was Clint Avery and she was presently gazing at him from about one hundred yards away, through a chain-link fence-topped with razor wire-that surrounded his massive construction company.

The name Avery had never come up as someone involved in the case. For very good reason: The builder had never posted on the blog and Chilton had never written about him in The Report.

Not by name, that is. The "Yellow Brick Road" thread didn't mention Avery specifically. But questioned the government's decision to build the highway and the bidding process, by implication also criticizing the contractor-which Dance should have known was Avery Construction, since she'd been flagged down by a company team at the site of the highway work when she'd been on her way to Caitlin Gardner's summer school two days ago. She hadn't put the two pieces together.

TJ Scanlon now told her, "Seems that Clint Avery was connected with a company investigated for using substandard materials about five years ago. Investigation got dropped real fast. Maybe Chilton's reporting might get the case reopened."

A good motive to kill the blogger, Dance agreed. "Thanks, TJ. That's good… And Chilton's got you the list of other suspects?"

"Yep."

"Any others stand out?"

"Not yet, boss. But I'm glad I don't have as many enemies as he does."

She gave a brief laugh and they disconnected.

From the distance, Dance continued to study Clint Avery. She'd seen pictures of him a dozen times-on the news and in the papers. He was hard to miss. Though he would certainly have been a millionaire many times over, he was dressed the same as any other worker: a blue shirt sprouting pens in the breast pocket, tan work slacks, boots. The sleeves were rolled up and she spotted a tattoo on his leathery forearm. In his hand was a yellow hard hat. A big walkie-talkie sat on his hip. She wouldn't have been surprised to see a six-shooter; his broad, mustachioed face looked like a gunslinger's.

She started the engine and drove through the gates. Avery noticed her car. He squinted slightly and seemed to recognize hers immediately as a government car. He concluded his discussion with a leather-jacketed man, who walked away. Quickly.

She parked. Avery Construction was a no-nonsense company, devoted to one purpose: building things. Huge stores of construction materials, bulldozers, Cats, backhoes, trucks and jeeps. There was a concrete plant on the premises and what appeared to be metal- and wood-working shops, large diesel tanks for feeding the vehicles, Quonset huts and storage sheds. The main office was made up of a number of large, functional buildings, all low. No graphic designer or landscaper had been involved in the creation of Avery Construction.

Dance identified herself. The head of the company was cordial and shook hands, his eyes crinkling lines into the tanned face as he glanced at her ID.

"Mr. Avery, we're hoping you can help us. You're familiar with the crimes that have been occurring around the Peninsula?"

"The Mask Killer, that boy, sure. I heard someone else was killed today. Terrible. How can I help you?"

"The killer's leaving roadside memorials as a warning that he's going to commit more crimes."

He nodded. "I've seen that on the news."

"Well, we've noticed something curious. Several of the crosses have been left near sites of your construction projects."

"They have?" Now a frown, his brow creasing significantly. Was it out of proportion to the news? Dance couldn't tell. Avery started to turn his head, then stopped. Had he instinctively been looking toward his leather-jacketed associate?

"How can I help?"

"We want to talk to some of your employees to see if they've noticed anything out of the ordinary."

"Such as?"

"Passersby behaving suspiciously, unusual objects, maybe footprints or bicycle tire tread marks in areas that were roped off for construction. Here's a list of locations." She'd written down several earlier in the car.

Concern on his face, he looked over the list then slipped the sheet into his shirt pocket and crossed his arms. This in itself meant little kinesically, since she hadn't had time to get a baseline reading. But arm and leg crossing are defensive gestures and can signify discomfort. "You want me to give you a list of employees who've worked around there? Since the killings began, I assume."

"Exactly. It would be a big help."

"I assume you'd like this sooner rather than later."

"As soon as possible."

"I'll do what I can."

She thanked him and walked back to the car, then drove out of the parking lot and up the road. Dance pulled up beside a dark blue Honda Accord nearby. She was pointed the opposite way, so her open window was two feet from Rey Carraneo's. He sat in the driver's seat of the Honda in shirtsleeves, without a tie. She'd seen him dressed this casually only twice before: at a Bureau picnic and one very bizarre barbecue at Charles Overby's house.

"He's got the bait," Dance said. "I have no idea if he'll bite."

"How did he react?"

"Hard to call. I didn't have time to take a baseline. But my sense was that he was struggling to seem calm and cooperative. He was more nervous than he let on. I'm also not so sure about one of his helpers." She described the man in the leather jacket. "Either one of them leaves, stay close."

"Yes, ma'am."

PATRIZIA CHILTON OPENED the door, nodded and said "Hi" to Greg Ashton, the man her husband called an Über Blogger-in that cute but slightly obnoxious way of Jim's.

"Hi, Pat," Ashton said. They shook hands. The slim man, in expensive tan slacks and a nice sports coat, nodded toward the squad car sitting in the road. "That deputy? He wouldn't give anything away. But he's here because of those killings, right?"

"They're just taking precautions."

"I've been following the story. You must be pretty upset."

She gave a stoic smile. "That's putting it mildly. It's been a nightmare." She liked being able to admit to how she felt. She couldn't always do that with Jim. She believed she had to be supportive. In fact, she was sometimes furious at his role as a relentless investigative journalist. It was important, she understood, but sometimes she just plain hated the blog.

And now…endangering the family and forcing them to move to a hotel? This morning she'd had to ask her brother, a big man who'd been a bouncer in college, to escort the boys to their day camp, stay there and bring them back.

She bolted the door behind them. "Can I get you anything?" Patrizia asked Ashton.

"No, no, I'm fine, thanks."

Patrizia walked him to the door of her husband's office, her eyes taking in the backyard through a large window in the hallway.

A tap of concern in her chest.

Had she seen something in the bushes behind the house? Was it a person?

She paused.

"Something wrong?" Ashton asked.

Her heart was pounding hard. "I…Nothing. Probably just a deer. I have to say this whole case has got my nerves shaken."

"I don't see anything."

"It's gone," she said. But was it? She couldn't tell. Yet she didn't want to alarm their guest. Besides, all the windows and doors were locked.

They arrived at her husband's office and stepped inside. "Honey," she said. "It's Greg."

"Ah, right on time."

The men shook hands.

Patrizia said, "Greg said he doesn't care for anything. How 'bout you, honey?"

"No, I'm fine. Any more tea and I'll be in the bathroom for the whole meeting."

"Well, I'll leave you two boys to do your work and get back to packing." Her heart sank again at the thought of moving into a hotel. She hated being driven from her home. At least the boys would consider it an adventure.

"Actually," Ashton said, "hold on a minute, Pat. I'm going to do a video of Jim's operation to post on my site. I want to include you too." He set his briefcase on the table and opened it up.

"Me?" Patrizia gasped. "Oh, no. I haven't done my hair. And my makeup."

Ashton said, "First of all, you look fantastic. But most important, blogging isn't about hair and makeup. It's about authenticity. I've shot dozens of these and I've never let anybody so much as put on lipstick."

"Well, I guess." Patrizia was distracted, thinking about the motion she'd seen behind the house. She should tell the deputy out front about it.

Ashton laughed. "It's only a webcam anyway, medium resolution." He held up the small video camera.

"You're not going to ask me questions, are you?" She was growing panicky at the thought. Jim's blog alone had hundreds of thousands of viewers. Greg Ashton's probably had many more. "I wouldn't know what to say."

"It'll be sound bites. Just talk about what it's like to be married to a blogger."

Her husband laughed. "I'll bet she has plenty to say."

"We can do as many takes as you want." Ashton set a tripod up in the corner of the room and mounted the camera.

Jim straightened his desktop, organizing the dozens of stacks of journals and papers. Ashton laughed and shook a finger. "We want it authentic, Jim."

Another laugh. "Okay. Fair enough." Jim replaced the papers and magazines.

Patrizia looked at herself in a small decorative mirror up on the wall, and ran her fingers through her hair. No, she decided defiantly. She was going to get fixed up, no matter what he said. She turned to tell Ashton this.

She had only a moment to blink, and no time to protect herself, when Ashton's fist swung directly into her cheek and collided hard with bone, breaking skin and knocking her to the floor.

Eyes wide in horror and bewilderment, Jim leapt toward him.

And froze as Ashton thrust a gun into his face.

"No!" Patrizia cried, scrabbling to her feet. "Don't hurt him!"

Ashton tossed Patrizia a roll of duct tape and ordered her to bind her husband's hands behind him.

She hesitated.

"Do it!"

Hands shaking, tears streaming, confused, she did as she'd been told.

"Honey," she whispered as she wrapped his hand behind the chair. "I'm scared."

"Do what he says," her husband told her. Then he glared at Ashton. "What the hell is this?"

Ashton ignored him and dragged Patrizia by the hair to the corner. She squealed, tears falling. "No…no. It hurts. No!"

Ashton taped her hands as well.

"Who are you?" Jim whispered.

But Patrizia Chilton could answer that one herself. Greg Ashton was the Roadside Cross Killer.

Ashton noticed Jim looking outside. He muttered, "The deputy? He's dead. There's nobody to help you."

Ashton pointed the video camera at Jim's pale, horrified face, tears welling in his eyes. "You want more hits on your precious Report, Chilton? Well, you're going to get 'em. I'll bet it'll be a record. I don't think we've ever seen a blogger killed on webcam before."

Chapter 35

Kathryn Dance was back at CBI headquarters. She was disappointed to learn that Jonathan Boling had returned to Santa Cruz. But since he'd come up with the platinum find-Stryker, well, Jason-there wasn't much else for him to do at the moment.

Rey Carraneo called in with some interesting news. He explained that Clint Avery had left his company ten minutes ago. The agent had followed him along the winding roads in the Pastures of Heaven, the name that literary legend John Steinbeck had given to the lush, agriculturally fertile area. There he'd stopped twice, on the shoulder. Both times he'd met with someone. First, two somber men-dressed like cowboys-in a fancy pickup truck. The second time, a white-haired man in a nice suit, behind the wheel of a Cadillac. The meetings seemed suspicious; Avery was clearly nervous. Carraneo had gotten the plates and was running profiles.

Avery was now headed toward Carmel, Carraneo right behind him.

Dance was discouraged. She'd hoped that her meeting with Avery would flush the construction boss-force him to speed to a safe house, where he'd stashed evidence-and perhaps Travis himself.

But apparently not.

Still, the men Avery'd met with might've been hired guns who were behind the killings. The DMV report would give her some clues, if not answers.

TJ stuck his head in her doorway. "Hey, boss, you still interested in Hamilton Royce?"

The man who was probably at that very moment considering how to bring her career down in flames. "Give me a one-minute précis."

"A what?" TJ asked.

"Synopsis. Summary. Digest."

" 'Précis' is a word? Learn something new every day… Okay. Royce's a former lawyer. Left practice mysteriously and quickly. He's a tough guy. Works mostly with six or seven different departments in the state. Ombudsman's his official title. Unofficially he's a fixer. You see that movie Michael Clayton?"

"With George Clooney, sure. Twice."

"Twice?"

"George Clooney."

"Ah. Well, that's what Royce does. Lately he's been doing a lot of work for senior people in the lieutenant governor's office, the state energy commission, the EPA, and the Finance Committee of the Assembly. If there's a problem, he's there."

"What sort of problem?"

"Committee disagreements, scandals, public relations, pilfering, contract disputes. I'm still waiting to hear back on more details."

"Let me know if there's anything I can use." Picking one of the man's favorite verbs.

"Use? To do what?"

"We had a falling-out, Royce and me."

"So you want to blackmail him?"

"That's a strong word. Let's just say I'd like to keep my job."

"I want you to keep your job too, boss. You let me get away with murder. Hey, what's with Avery?"

"Rey's tailing him."

"Love that word. Almost as good as 'shadow.' "

"What's the progress on Chilton's list of suspects?"

TJ explained that tracking them down was going slowly. People had moved or were unlisted, they were out, names had changed.

"Give me half," she said. "I'll get going on it too."

The young agent handed her a sheet of paper. "I'll give you the small list," he said, "because you're my favorite boss."

Dance looked over the names, considering how best to proceed. She heard in her mind Jon Boling's words. We give away too much information about ourselves online. Way too much.

Kathryn Dance decided she'd get to the official databases in a while-National Criminal Information Center, Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, California Open Warrants and consolidated DMV.

For now, she'd stick to Google.

GREG SCHAEFFER STUDIED James Chilton, who sat bloodied and frightened before him.

Schaeffer had been using the pseudonym Greg Ashton to get close to Chilton without arousing suspicions.

Because the name "Schaeffer" might raise alarms in the blogger.

But then again it might not have; it wouldn't surprise Schaeffer one bit if Chilton regularly forgot about the victims who suffered because of his blog.

This thought infuriated Schaeffer all the more and when Chilton started to sputter, "Why-?" he slugged him once more.

The blogger's head snapped back against the upper part of his desk chair and he grunted. Which was all fine, but the son of a bitch wasn't looking terrified enough to satisfy Schaeffer.

"Ashton! Why're you doing this?"

Schaeffer leaned forward, gripped Chilton by the collar. He whispered, "You're going to read a statement. If you don't sound sincere, if you don't sound remorseful, your wife will die. Your children too. I know they'll be home from camp soon. I've been following them. I know the schedule." He turned to Chilton's wife. "And I know your brother's with them. He's a big guy, but he's not bulletproof."

"Oh, God, no!" Patrizia gasped, dissolving into tears. "Please!"

And now, at last, there was real fear in Chilton's face. "No, don't hurt my family! Please, please…I'll do whatever you want. Just don't hurt them."

"Read the statement and sound like you mean it," Schaeffer warned, "then I'll leave them alone. I'll tell you, Chilton, I've got nothing but sympathy for them. They deserve a better life than being with a piece of shit like you."

"I'll read it," the blogger said. "But who are you? Why are you doing this? You owe me an answer."

Schaeffer was seized by a wave of fury. "Owe you?" he growled. "Owe you? You arrogant asshole!" He slammed his fist into Chilton's cheek once more, leaving the man stunned. "I owe you nothing." He leaned forwards and snapped, "Who am I, who am I? Do you know anybody whose lives you destroy? No, of course not. Because you sit in that fucking chair, a million miles away from real life, and you say whatever you want to say. You type some shit on your keyboard, send it out into the world and then you're on to something else. Does the concept of consequences mean anything to you? Accountability?"

"I try to be accurate. If I got something wrong-"

Schaeffer burned. "You are so fucking blind. You don't understand you can be factually right and still be wrong. Do you have to tell every secret in the world? Do you have to destroy lives for no reason-except your ratings?"

"Please!"

"Does the name Anthony Schaeffer mean anything to you?"

Chilton's eyes closed momentarily. "Oh." When he opened them again they were filled with understanding, and perhaps remorse. But that didn't move Schaeffer one bit.

At least Chilton remembered the man he'd destroyed.

Patrizia asked, "Who's that? Who does he mean, Jim?"

"Tell her, Chilton."

The blogger sighed. "He was a gay man who killed himself after I outed him a few years ago. And he was…?"

"My brother." His voice cracked.

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry," Schaeffer scoffed.

"I apologized for what happened. I never wanted him to die! You must know that. I felt terrible."

Schaeffer turned to Patrizia, "Your husband, the voice of the moral and just universe, didn't like it that a deacon in a church could also be gay."

Chilton snapped back, "That wasn't the reason. He headed a big anti-gay marriage campaign in California. I was attacking his hypocrisy, not his sexual orientation. And his immorality. He was married, he had children…but when he was on business trips he'd call up gay prostitutes. He was cheating on his wife, sometimes with three men a night!"

The blogger's defiance was back and Schaeffer wanted to hit him once more, so he did, hard and fast.

"Tony was struggling to find God's path. He slipped a few times. And you made it sound like he was a monster! You never even gave him a chance to explain. God was helping him find the way."

"Well, God wasn't doing a very good job. Not if-"

The fist struck again.

"Jim, don't argue with him. Please!"

Chilton lowered his head. Finally he looked desperate and filled with sorrow and fear.

Schaeffer enjoyed the delicious sense of the man's despair. "Read the statement."

"All right. I'll do whatever you want. I'll read it. But my family…please." The agony in Chilton's face was like fine wine to Schaeffer.

"You have my word on it." He said this sincerely, though he was reflecting that Patrizia would outlive her husband by no more than two seconds-a humane act, in the end. She wouldn't want to go on without him. Besides, she was a witness.

As for the children, no, he wouldn't kill them. For one thing they weren't due home for nearly an hour and he'd be long gone by then. Also, he wanted the sympathy of the world. Killing the blogger and his wife was one thing. The children were something else.

Beneath the camera Schaeffer taped a piece of the paper containing the statement he'd written that morning. It was a moving piece-and had been drafted in a way to make sure that nobody would associate the crime with him.

Chilton cleared his throat and looked down. He began to read. "This is a statement-" His voice broke.

Beautiful! Schaeffer kept the camera running.

Chilton started over. "This is a statement to those who've been reading my blog, The Chilton Report, over the years. There is nothing more precious in the world than a man's reputation and I have devoted my life to needlessly and randomly destroying the reputations of many fine, upstanding citizens."

He was doing a good job.

"It's easy to buy a cheap computer and a website and some blog software and in five minutes you've got a venue for your personal opinions-a venue that will be seen by millions of people around the world. This leads to an intoxicating sense of power. But it's a power that isn't earned. It's a power that's stolen.

"I've written many things about people that were merely rumors. Those rumors spread and they became accepted as the truth, even though they were total lies. Because of my blog the life of a young man, Travis Brigham, has been destroyed. He has nothing more to live for. And neither do I. He has sought justice against the people who attacked him, people who were my friends. And now he's rendering justice against me. I'm ultimately responsible for destroying his life."

Glorious tears were streaking down his face. Schaeffer was in purest heaven.

"I now accept responsibility for destroying Travis's reputation and those of the others I've carelessly written about. The sentence that Travis now serves on me will stand as a warning to others: The truth is sacred. Rumors are not the truth… Now, good-bye."

He inhaled deeply and looked at his wife.

Schaeffer was satisfied. The man had done a good job. He paused the webcam and checked the screen. Only Chilton was in the image. The wife wasn't. He didn't want an image of her death, just the blogger's. He pulled back a bit so the man's entire torso was visible. He'd shoot him once, in the heart, and let him die on camera, then upload the post to a number of social networking sites and to other blogs. Schaeffer estimated it would take two minutes for the video to appear on YouTube and would be viewed by several million people before the company took it down. By then, though, the pirate software that allowed the downloading of streaming videos would have captured it and the footage would spread throughout the world like cancer cells.

"They'll find you," Chilton muttered. "The police."

"But they won't be looking for me. They'll be looking for Travis Brigham. And, frankly, I don't think anybody's going to be looking very hard. You've got a lot of enemies, Chilton."

He cocked the gun.

"No!" Patrizia Chilton wailed desperately, frantic. Schaeffer resisted a tempting impulse to shoot her first.

He kept the gun steady on his target and noted a resigned and, it seemed, ironic smile crossing James Chilton's face.

Schaeffer hit the "Record" button on the camera again and began to pull the trigger.

When he heard, "Freeze!"

The voice was coming from the open office doorway. "Drop the weapon. Now!"

Jolted, Schaeffer glanced back, at a slim young Latino man in a white shirt, sleeves rolled up. Pointing a weapon his way. A badge on his hip.

No! How had they found him?

Schaeffer kept the gun steadily on the blogger's chest and snapped to the cop, "You drop it!"

"Lower the weapon," was the officer's measured reply. "This is your only warning."

Schaeffer growled, "If you shoot me, I'll-"

He saw a yellow flash, sensed a tap to his head and then the universe went black.

Chapter 36

The dead rolled, the living walked.

The body of Greg Ashton-it was really Greg Schaeffer, Dance had learned-was wheeled down the stairs and over the lawn on the rickety gurney to the coroner's bus, while James and Patrizia Chilton walked slowly to an ambulance.

Another casualty, everyone was horrified to learn, was the MCSO deputy who'd been guarding the Chiltons, Miguel Herrera.

Schaeffer, as Ashton, had stopped at Herrera's car. The guard had called Patrizia and been told that the man was expected. Then Schaeffer had apparently shoved the gun against Herrera's jacket and fired twice, the proximity to the body muting the sound.

The deputy's supervisor from the MCSO was present, along with a dozen other deputies, shaken, furious at the murder.

As for the walking wounded, the Chiltons didn't seem too badly hurt.

Dance was, however, keeping an eye on Rey Carraneo-who'd been the first on the scene, spotted the dead deputy, and raced into the house after calling for backup. He'd seen Schaeffer about to shoot Chilton. Carraneo gave the killer a by-the-book warning, but when the man had tried to negotiate, the agent had simply fired two very efficient rounds into his head. Discussions with gun-toting suspects only occur in movies and TV shows-and bad ones, at that. Police never lower or set down their weapons. And they never hesitate to take out a target if one presents itself.

Rules number one, two and three are: shoot.

And he had. Superficially the young agent seemed fine, his body language unchanged from the professional, upright posture he wore like a rented tux. But his eyes told a different story, revealing the words looping through his mind at the moment: I just killed a man. I just killed a man.

She'd make sure he took some time off with pay.

A car pulled up and Michael O'Neil climbed out. He spotted Dance and joined her. The quiet deputy wasn't smiling.

"I'm sorry, Michael." She gripped his arm. O'Neil had known Miguel Herrera for several years.

"Just shot him down?"

"That's right."

His eyes closed briefly. "Jesus."

"Wife?"

"No. Divorced. But he's got a grown son. He's already been notified." O'Neil, otherwise so calm, with a facade that revealed so little, looked with chilling hatred at the green bag containing Greg Schaeffer's body

Another voice intruded, weak, unsteady. "Thank you."

They turned to face the man who'd spoken: James Chilton. Wearing dark slacks, a white T-shirt and a navy blue V-neck sweater, the blogger seemed like a chaplain humbled by battlefront carnage. His wife was at his side.

"Are you all right?" Dance asked them.

"I'm fine, yes. Thank you. Just beat up a bit. Cuts and bruises."

Patrizia Chilton said she too wasn't seriously injured.

O'Neil nodded to them and asked Chilton, "Who was he?"

Dance answered, "Anthony Schaeffer's brother."

Chilton gave a blink of surprise. "You figured it out?"

She explained to O'Neil about Ashton's real name. "That's the interesting thing about the Internet-those role-playing games and sites. Like Second Life. You can create whole new identities for yourself. Schaeffer's been spending the past few months seeding the name 'Greg Ashton' around online as this blogging and RSS maven. He did that to seduce his way into Chilton's life."

"I outed his brother Anthony in a blog several years ago," Chilton explained. "He was the one I told Agent Dance about when I first met her-one of the things I regretted about the blog-that he killed himself."

O'Neil asked Dance, "How did you find out about him?"

"TJ and I were checking out the suspects. It wasn't likely that Arnold Brubaker was the killer. I was still suspicious of Clint Avery-the guy behind the highway project-but we didn't have anything specific yet. So I was working on the list of people who'd sent James threats."

The small list…

Chilton said, "Anthony Schaeffer's wife was on the list. Sure. She'd threatened me a few years ago."

Dance continued, "I went online to find out as many details about her as I could. I found her wedding pictures. The best man at their wedding was Greg, Anthony's brother. I recognized him from when I came to your house the other day. I checked him out. He traveled here on an open ticket about two weeks ago." As soon as she'd learned this she'd called Miguel Herrera but couldn't get through, so she sent Rey Carraneo here. The agent, following Clint Avery, was not far from Chilton's house.

O'Neil asked, "Did Schaeffer say anything about Travis?"

Dance showed him the plastic envelope containing the handwritten note, with the references to Travis, making it seem that the boy was the one about to shoot Chilton.

"He's dead, you think?"

O'Neil's and Dance's eyes met. She said, "I'm not going on that assumption. Ultimately, sure, Schaeffer'd have to kill the boy. But he might not have done it yet. He might want to make it look like Travis killed himself after he'd finished with Chilton. Make the case tidier. That means he could still be alive."

The senior deputy took a phone call. He stepped away, eyes straying to the MCSO car where Herrera had been so ruthlessly killed. He disconnected after a moment. "Got to head off. Have to interview a witness."

"You? Interviewing?" she chided. Michael O'Neil's technique at interviewing involved gazing unsmilingly at the subject and asking him over and over again to tell O'Neil what he knew. It could be effective, but it wasn't efficient. And O'Neil didn't really enjoy it.

He consulted his watch. "Any chance you could do me a favor?"

"Name it."

"Anne's flight from San Francisco was delayed. I can't miss this interview. Can you pick up the kids at day care?"

"Sure. I'm going to get Wes and Maggie after camp anyway."

"Meet me at Fisherman's Wharf at five?"

"Sure."

O'Neil headed off, with yet another dark glance at Herrera's car.

Chilton gripped his wife's hand. Dance recognized postures that bespoke a graze with mortality. She thought back to the arrogant, self-righteous crusader Chilton had been when she first met him. Very different now. She recalled that something about him seemed to have softened earlier-when he'd learned that his friend Don Hawken and his wife had nearly been killed. Now, there'd been another shift, away from the stony visage of a missionary.

The man gave a bitter smile. "Oh, did he sucker me in… He played right to my fucking ego."

"Jim-"

"No, honey. He did. You know, this's all my fault. Schaeffer picked Travis. He read through the blog, found somebody who'd be a good candidate to be a fall guy and set up a seventeen-year-old boy as my killer. If I hadn't started the 'Roadside Crosses' thread and mentioned the accident, Schaeffer wouldn't have any incentive to go after him."

He was right. But Kathryn Dance tended to avoid the what-if game. The playing field was far too soupy. "He would've picked somebody else," she pointed out. "He was determined to get revenge against you."

But Chilton didn't seem to hear. "I should just shut the fucking blog down altogether."

Dance saw resolve in his eyes, frustration, anger. Fear, too, she believed. Speaking to both of them, he said firmly, "I'm going to."

"To what?" his wife asked.

"Shut it down. The Report's finished. I'm not destroying anybody else's life."

"Jim," Patrizia said softly. She brushed some dirt off her sleeve. "When our son had pneumonia, you sat beside his bed for two days and didn't get a bit of sleep. When Don's wife died, you walked right out of that meeting at Microsoft headquarters to be there for him-you gave up a hundred-thousand-dollar contract. When my dad was dying, you were with him more than the hospice people. You do good things, Jim. That's what you're about. And your blog does good things too."

"I-"

"Shhh. Let me finish. Donald Hawken needed you and you were there. Our children needed you and you were there. Well, the world needs you too, honey. You can't turn your back on that."

"Patty, people died."

"Just promise me you won't make any decisions too fast. This has been a terrible couple of days. Nobody's thinking clearly."

A lengthy pause. "I'll see. I'll see." Then he hugged his wife. "But one thing I do know is that I can go on hiatus for a few days. And we're going to get away from here." Chilton said to his wife, "Let's go up to Hollister tomorrow. We'll spend a long weekend with Donald and Lily. You still haven't met her. We'll bring the boys, cook out…do some hiking."

Patrizia's face blossomed into a smile. She rested her head against his shoulders. "I'd like that."

He'd turned his attention to Dance. "There's something I've been thinking about."

She cocked an eyebrow.

"A lot of people would've thrown me to the wolves. And I probably deserved to be thrown. But you didn't. You didn't like me, you didn't approve, but you stood up for me. That's intellectual honesty. You don't see that much. Thank you."

Dance gave a faint, embarrassed laugh, acknowledging the compliment-even as she thought of the times when she had wanted to throw him to the wolves.

The Chiltons returned to the house to finish packing and arrange for a motel that night-Patrizia didn't want to stay in the house until the office had been scrubbed clean of every trace of Schaeffer's blood. Dance could hardly blame her.

The agent now joined the MCSO Crime Scene chief, an easygoing middle-aged officer she'd worked with for several years. She explained that there was a possibility that Travis might still be alive, stashed in a hideout somewhere. Which meant he'd have a dwindling supply of food and water. She had to locate him. And soon.

"You find a room key on the body?"

"Yep. Cyprus Grove Inn."

"I want the room, and Schaeffer's clothes and his car gone over with a microscope. Look for anything that might give us a clue where he might've put the boy."

"You bet, Kathryn."

She returned to her car, phoning TJ. "You got him, boss. I heard."

"Yep. But now I want to find the boy. If he's alive, we may only have a day or two until he starves to death or dies of thirst. All-out on this one. MCSO's running the scenes at Chilton's house and at the Cyprus Grove-where Schaeffer was staying. Call Peter Bennington and ride herd on the reports. Call Michael if you need to. Oh, and find me witnesses in nearby rooms at the Cyprus Grove."

"Sure, boss."

"And contact CHP, county and city police. I want to find the last roadside cross-the one Schaeffer left to announce Chilton's death. Peter should go over it with every bit of equipment they've got." Another thought occurred to her. "Did you ever hear back about that state vehicle?"

"Oh, that Pfister saw, right?"

"Yeah."

"Nobody's called. I don't think we're prioritized."

"Try again. And make it a priority."

"You coming in, boss? Overbearing wants to see you."

"TJ."

"Sorry."

"I'll be in later. I've got to follow up on one thing."

"You need help?"

She said she didn't, though the truth was she sure as hell didn't want to do this one solo.

Chapter 37

Sitting in her car, parked in the driveway, Dance gazed at the Brighams' small house: the sad lean of the gutters and curl of the shingles, the dismembered toys and tools in the front and side yards. The garage so filled with discards that you couldn't get more than half a car hood under its roof.

Dance was sitting in the driver's seat of her Crown Vic, the door shut. Listening to a CD she and Martine had been sent from a group in Los Angeles. The musicians were Costa Rican. She found the music both cheerful and mysterious, and wanted to know more about them. She'd hoped that when she and Michael were in L.A. on the J. Doe murder case she'd have a chance to meet with them and do some more recordings.

But she couldn't think about that now.

She heard the rumble of rubber on gravel and looked into the rearview mirror to see Sonia Brigham's car pause as it turned past the hedge of boxwood.

The woman was alone in the front seat. Sammy sat in the back.

The car didn't move for a long moment and Dance could see the woman staring desperately at the police cruiser. Finally Sonia eased her battered car forward again and drove past Dance to the front of the house, braked and shut the engine off.

With a fast look Dance's way, the woman climbed out and strode to the back of the car and lifted out the laundry baskets, and a large bottle of Tide.

His families so poor that they can't even afford a washer and drier… Who goes to laundromats? Lusers that's who…

The blog post that told Schaeffer where to find a sweatshirt to steal to help him frame Travis.

Dance climbed out of her own vehicle.

Sammy looked at her with a probing expression. The curiosity of their first meeting was gone; now he was uneasy. His eyes were eerily adult.

"You know something about Travis?" he asked, and didn't sound as odd as he had earlier.

But before Dance could say anything, his mother shooed him off to play in the backyard.

He hesitated, still staring at Dance, then wandered off, uncomfortable, fishing in his pockets.

"Don't go far, Sammy."

Dance took the bottle of detergent from under Sonia's pale arm and followed her toward the house. Sonia's jaw was firm, eyes straight forward.

"Mrs.-"

"I have to put this away," Sonia Brigham said in a clipped tone.

Dance opened the unlocked door for her. She followed Sonia inside. The woman moved straight into the kitchen and separated the baskets. "If you let them sit…the wrinkles, you know what it's like." She smoothed a T-shirt.

Woman to woman.

"I washed it thinking I could give it to him."

"Mrs. Brigham, there are some things you should know. Travis wasn't driving the car on June 9. He took the blame."

"What?" She stopped fussing with her laundry.

"He had a crush on the girl who was driving. She'd been drinking. He tried to get her to pull over and let him drive. She crashed before that happened."

"Oh, heavens!" Sonia lifted the shirt to her face, as if it could ward off the impending tears.

"And he wasn't the killer, leaving the crosses. Someone set it up to make it seem like he'd left them and caused those deaths. A man with a grudge against James Chilton. We stopped him."

"And Travis?" Sonia asked desperately, fingers white as they gripped the shirt.

"We don't know where he is. We're looking everywhere, but we haven't found any leads yet." Dance explained briefly about Greg Schaeffer and his plan for revenge.

Sonia wiped her round cheeks. There was prettiness still in her face, though obscured. The remnants of the prettiness evident in the picture of her in the state fair stall taken years earlier. Sonia whispered, "I knew Travis wouldn't hurt those people. I told you that."

Yes, you did, Dance thought. And your body language told me that you were telling the truth. I didn't listen to you. I listened to logic when I should have listened to intuition. Long ago Dance had done a Myers-Briggs analysis of herself. She got into trouble when she strayed too far from her nature.

She replaced the shirt, smoothed the cotton again. "He's dead, isn't he?"

"We have no evidence he is. Absolutely none."

"But you think so."

"It'd be logical for Schaeffer to keep him alive. I'm doing everything we can to save him. That's one of the reasons I'm here." She displayed a picture of Greg Schaeffer, a copy from his DMV picture. "Have you ever seen him? Maybe following you? Talking to neighbors?"

Sonia pulled on battered glasses and looked at the face for a long time. "No. I can't say I have. So he's him. The one done it, took my boy?"

"Yes."

"I told you no good would come of that blog."

Her eyes slipped toward the side yard, where Sammy was disappearing into the ramshackle shed. She sighed. "If Travis is gone, telling Sammy…oh, that'll destroy him. I'll be losing two sons at once. Now, I've got to put the laundry away. Please go now."

DANCE AND O'NEIL stood next to each other on the pier, leaning against the railing. The fog was gone, but the wind was steady. Around Monterey Bay you always had one or the other.

"Travis's mother," O'Neil said, speaking loudly. "That was tough, I'll bet."

"Hardest part of it all," she said, her hair flying. Then asked him, "How was the interview?" Thinking of the Indonesian investigation.

The Other Case.

"Good."

She was glad O'Neil was running the case, regretted her jealousy. Terrorism kept all law enforcers up nights. "If you need anything from me let me know."

His eyes on the bay, he said, "I think we'll wrap it in the next twenty-four hours."

Below them were their children, the four of them, on the sand at water's edge. Maggie and Wes led the expedition; being grandchildren of a marine biologist, they had some authority.

Pelicans flew solemnly nearby, gulls were everywhere, and not far offshore, a brown curl of sea otter floated easily on its back, inverted elegance. It happily smashed open mollusks against a rock balanced on its chest. Dinner. O'Neil's daughter, Amanda, and Maggie stared at it gleefully, as if trying to figure out how to get it home as a pet.

Dance touched O'Neil's arm and pointed at ten-year-old Tyler, who was crouching beside a long whip of kelp and poking it cautiously, ready to flee if the alien creature came to life. Wes stood protectively near in case it did.

O'Neil smiled but she sensed from his stance and the tension in his arm that something was bothering him.

Only a moment later he explained, calling over the blast of wind, "I heard from Los Angeles. The defense is trying to move the immunity hearing back again. Two weeks."

"Oh, no," Dance muttered. "Two weeks? The grand jury's scheduled for then."

"Seybold's going all-out to fight it. He didn't sound optimistic."

"Hell." Dance grimaced. "War of attrition? Keep stalling and hope it all goes away?"

"Probably."

"We won't," she said firmly. "You and me, we won't go away. But will Seybold and the others?"

O'Neil considered this. "If it takes much more time, maybe. It's an important case. But they have a lot of important cases."

Dance sighed. She shivered.

"You cold?"

Her forearm was docked against his.

She shook her head. The involuntary ripple had come from thinking of Travis. As she'd been looking over the water, she'd wondered if she was also gazing at his grave.

A gull hovered directly in front of them. The angle of attack of his wings adjusted perfectly for the velocity of the wind. He was immobile, twenty feet above the beach.

Dance said, "All along, you know, even when we thought he was the killer, I felt sorry for Travis. His home life, the fact he's a misfit. Getting cyberbullied like that. And Jon was telling me the blog was just the tip of the iceberg. People were attacking him in instant messages, emails, on other bulletin boards. It's just so sad it's turned out this way. He was innocent. Completely innocent."

O'Neil said nothing for a moment. Then: "He seems sharp. Boling, I mean."

"He is. Getting the names of the victims. And tracking down Travis's avatar."

O'Neil laughed. "Sorry, but I keep picturing you going to Overby about a warrant for a character in a computer game."

"Oh, he'd do the paperwork in a minute if he thought there was a press conference and a good photo op involved. I could've beaned Jon, though, for going to that arcade alone."

"Playing hero?"

"Yep. Save us from amateurs."

"He married, have a family?"

"Jon? No." She laughed. "He's a bachelor."

Now there's a word you haven't heard for…about a century.

They fell silent, watching the children, who were totally lost in their seaside exploration. Maggie was holding her hand out and pointing to something, probably explaining to O'Neil's children the name of a shell she'd found.

Wes, Dance noted, was by himself, standing on a damp flat, the water easing up close to his feet in foamy lines.

And as she often did, Dance wondered if her children would be better off if she had a husband, and they had a home with a father. Well, of course they would.

Depending on the man, of course.

There was always that.

A woman's voice behind them. "Excuse me. Are those your children?"

They turned to see a tourist, to judge by the bag she held from a nearby souvenir shop.

"That's right," Dance said.

"I just wanted to say that it's so nice to see a happily married couple with such lovely children. How long have you been married?"

A millisecond pause. Dance answered, "Oh, for some time."

"Well, bless you. Stay happy." The woman joined an elderly man leaving a gift shop. She took his arm and they headed toward a large tour bus, parked nearby.

Dance and O'Neil laughed. Then she noticed a silver Lexus pull up in a nearby parking lot. As the door opened, she was aware that O'Neil had eased away from her slightly, so that their arms no longer touched.

The deputy smiled and waved to his wife as she climbed from the Lexus.

Tall, blond Anne O'Neil, wearing a leather jacket, peasant blouse, long skirt and belt of dangly metal, smiled as she approached. "Hello, honey," she said to O'Neil and hugged him, kissed his cheek. Her eyes lit on Dance. "Kathryn."

"Hi, Anne. Welcome home."

"The flight was awful. I got tied up at the gallery and didn't make it in time to check my bag. I was right on the borderline."

"I was in an interview," O'Neil told her. "Kathryn picked up Tyler and Ammie."

"Oh, thanks. Mike said you've closed the case. That one about the roadside crosses."

"A few hours ago. Lot of paperwork, but, yeah, it's done." Not wanting to talk about it any longer, Dance said, "How's the photo exhibition going?"

"Getting ready," said Anne O'Neil, whose hair brought to mind the word 'lioness'. "Curating's more work than taking the pictures."

"Which gallery?"

"Oh, just Gerry Mitchell's. South of Market." The tone was dismissive, but Dance guessed the gallery was well known. Whatever else, Anne never flaunted ego.

"Congratulations."

"We'll see what happens at the opening. Then there are the reviews afterward." Her sleek face grew solemn. In a low voice: "I'm sorry about your mother, Kathryn. It's all crazy. How's she holding up?"

"Pretty upset."

"It's like a circus. The newspaper stories. It made the news up there."

A hundred and thirty miles away? Well, Dance shouldn't've been surprised. Not with the prosecutor Robert Harper playing the media game.

"We've got a good attorney."

"If there's anything I can do…" The ends of Anne's metal belt tinkled like a wind chime in the breeze.

O'Neil called down to the beach, "Hey, guys, your mother's here. Come on!"

"Can't we stay, Dad?" Tyler pleaded.

"Nope. Time to get home. Come on."

Reluctantly the children trudged toward the adults. Maggie was dispensing shells. Dance was sure she'd be giving the good ones to the O'Neil children and her brother.

Wes and Maggie piled into Dance's Pathfinder for the short ride to the inn where her parents were staying. Once again, they'd spend the night with Edie and Stuart. The perp was dead, so the threat to her personally was gone, but Dance was adamant about finding Travis alive. She'd possibly be working late into the night.

They were halfway to the inn when Dance noticed that Wes had grown quiet.

"Hey, young man, what's up?"

"Just wondering."

Dance knew how to reel in details from reluctant children. The trick was patience. "About what?"

She was sure it had to do with his grandmother.

But it didn't.

"Is Mr. Boling coming over again?"

"Jon? Why?"

"Just, The Matrix's on TNT tomorrow. Maybe he hasn't seen it."

"I'll bet he has." Dance was always amused by the way children assumed that they're the first to experience something and that prior generations lived in sorrowful ignorance and deprivation. Mostly, though, she was surprised that the boy had even asked the question. "You like Mr. Boling?" she ventured.

"No…I mean, he's okay."

Maggie contradicted, "You said you liked him! You said he was neat. As neat as Michael."

"I did not."

"Yes, you did!"

"Maggie, you are so wrong!"

"All right," Dance commanded. But her tone was amused. In fact, there was something about the sibling bickering that she found comforting, a bit of normalcy in this turbulent time.

They arrived at the inn, and Dance was relieved to see that the protestors still had not found the location where her parents were hiding out. She walked Wes and Maggie to the front door. Her father greeted her. She hugged him hard and looked inside. Her mother was on the phone, focusing on what was apparently a serious conversation.

Dance wondered if she was talking to her sister, Betsey.

"Any word from Sheedy, Dad?"

"Nothing more, no. The arraignment's tomorrow afternoon." He brushed absently at his thick hair. "I heard you got the fellow, that killer. And the boy was innocent?"

"We're looking for him right now." Her voice lowered so the children couldn't hear. "Frankly, the odds are he's dead, but I'm hoping for the best." She hugged the man. "I've got to get back to the search now."

"Good luck, honey."

As she turned to leave she waved once more to her mother. Edie reciprocated with a distant smile and nod, then, still on the phone, gestured her grandchildren to her and gave them big hugs.

TEN MINUTES LATER Dance walked into her office, where a message awaited her.

A curt note from Charles Overby:

Could you send me the report on disposition of the Chilton blog case. All the details, sufficient for a meaningful announcement to the press. Will need within the hour. Thank you.

And you're welcome for a case solved, a perp dead and no more victims.

Overby was pissy, she supposed, because she'd refused to kowtow to Hamilton Royce, the fixer.

Who was about as far from George Clooney as one could be.

Meaningful announcement…

Dance composed a lengthy memo, giving the details of Greg Schaeffer's plan, how they'd learned of his identity and his death. She included information about the murder of Miguel Herrera, the deputy with the MCSO guarding the Chilton house, and the update on the all-out search for Travis.

She sent the memo off via email, hitting the mouse harder than usual.

TJ stuck his head in the door of her office. "You hear, boss?"

"About what in particular?"

"Kelley Morgan's regained consciousness. She'll live."

"Oh, that's so good to hear."

"Be a week or so in therapy, the deputy over there said. That stuff screwed up her lungs pretty bad, but she'll be okay, eventually. Looks like there won't be any brain damage."

"And what'd she say about ID'ing Travis?"

"He got her from behind, half strangled her. He whispered something about why'd she posted things about him? And then she passed out, woke up in the basement. Assumed it was Travis."

"So Schaeffer didn't want her to die. He set it up to make her think it was Travis but never let her see him."

"Makes sense, boss."

"And Crime Scene-at Schaeffer's and Chilton's? Any leads to where the boy might be?"

"Nothing yet. And no witnesses around the Cyprus Grove."

She sighed. "Keep at it."

The time was now after 6:00 p.m. She realized she hadn't eaten since breakfast. She rose and made for the lunchroom. She needed coffee and wanted something indulgent: homemade cookies or doughnuts. Maryellen's well in the Gals' Wing had run dry. At the least she could enter a negotiation with the temperamental vending machine: a rumpled dollar in exchange for a packet of toasted peanut butter crackers or Oreos.

As she stepped into the cafeteria she blinked. Ah, luck.

On a paper plate full of crumbs sat two oatmeal raisin cookies.

More of a miracle, the coffee was relatively fresh.

She poured a cup, added 2 percent milk and snagged a cookie. Exhausted, she plunked herself down at a table. She stretched and fished her iPod out of her pocket, mounting the ear buds and scrolling through the screen to find solace in more of Badi Assad's arresting Brazilian guitar.

She hit "Play," took a bite of cookie and was reaching for the coffee when a shadow hovered.

Hamilton Royce was looking down at her. His temporary ID was pinned to his shirt. The big man's arms hung at his sides.

Just what I need. If thoughts could sigh, hers would have been clearly audible.

"Agent Dance. Can I join you?"

She gestured to an empty chair, trying not to look too invitational. But she did pull out the ear buds.

He sat, the chair squeaking, plastic and metal in tension under his frame, and leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands clasped in front of him. This position generally signifies directness. She noted his suit again. The blue didn't work. Not dark enough. Or, alternatively, she thought unkindly, he should be wearing a sailor's hat with a shiny brim.

"I heard. The case is over, correct?"

"We've got the perp. We're still searching for the boy."

"For Travis?" Royce asked, surprised.

"That's right."

"But he's dead, don't you think?"

"No."

"Oh." A pause. "That's the one thing I regret," Royce said. "That's the worst of it all. That innocent boy."

Dance noted that this reaction, at least, was honest.

She said nothing more.

Royce offered, "I'll be headed back to Sacramento in a day or two. Look, I know we had some problems earlier… Well, disagreements. I wanted to apologize."

Decent of him, though she remained skeptical. She said, "We saw things differently. I didn't take any offense. Not personally."

But, professionally, she thought, I was totally pissed you tried to flank me.

"There was a lot of pressure from Sacramento. I mean, a lot. I got carried away in the heat of the moment." He looked away, partly embarrassed. And partly deceptive too; he didn't feel that bad, Dance noticed. But she gave him credit for trying to make nice. He continued, "Not often that you're in a situation like this, is it? Where you have to protect somebody as unpopular as Chilton." He didn't seem to expect an answer. He gave a hollow laugh. "You know something? In a funny way I've come to admire him."

"Chilton?"

A nod. "I don't agree with much of what he says. But he's got moral character. And not a lot of people do nowadays. Even in the face of a murder threat, he stayed the course. And he'll probably keep right on going. Don't you think?"

"I assume so." She said nothing about the possible termination of The Chilton Report.

That wasn't her business, or Royce's.

"You know what I'd like to do? Apologize to him too."

"Would you?"

"I tried his house. Nobody was answering. Do you know where he is?"

"He and his family're going to their vacation home in Hollister tomorrow. Tonight, they're staying at a hotel. I don't know where. Their house is a crime scene."

"Well, I suppose I could email him at his blog."

She was wondering if this would ever happen.

Then, silence. Time for my exit, Dance thought. She snagged the last cookie, wrapped it in a napkin and headed for the lunchroom door. "Have a safe drive, Mr. Royce."

"Again, I'm truly sorry, Agent Dance. I look forward to working with you in the future."

Her kinesic skills easily fired off a message that his comment had contained two lies.

Chapter 38

Jonathan Boling, looking pleased, was walking up to Dance in the lobby of the CBI. She handed him a temporary pass.

"Thanks for coming in."

"I was beginning to miss the place. I thought I'd been fired."

She smiled. When she'd called him in Santa Cruz she'd interrupted a paper-grading session for one of his summer school courses (she'd wondered if she would catch him prepping for a date) and Boling had been delighted to abandon the job and drive back to Monterey.

In her office, she handed him his last assignment: Greg Schaeffer's laptop. "I'm really desperate to find Travis, or his body. Can you go through it, look for any references to local locations, driving directions, maps…anything like that?"

"Sure." He indicated the Toshiba. "Passworded?"

"Not this time."

"Good."

He opened the lid and began to type. "I'll search for everything with a file access or creation date in the past two weeks. Does that sound good?"

"Sure."

Dance tried not to smile once more, watching him lean forward enthusiastically. His fingers played over the keys like a concert pianist's. After a few moments he sat back. "Well, it doesn't look like he used it for much of his mission here, other than to research for blogs and RSS feeds, and emails to friends and business associates-and none of them have anything to do with his plot to kill Chilton. But those are just the undeleted records. He's been deleting files and websites regularly for the past week. Those, I'd guess, might be more what you're interested in."

"Yep. Can you reconstruct them?"

"I'll go online and download one of Irv's bots. That'll roam the free space on his C: drive and put back together anything he's deleted recently. Some of it will be only partial and some will be distorted. But most of the files should be ninety percent readable."

"That'd be great, Jon."

Five minutes later Irv's bot was silently roaming through Schaeffer's computer, looking for fragments of deleted files, reassembling them and storing them in a new folder that Boling had created.

"How long?" she asked.

"A couple of hours, I'd guess." Boling looked at his watch and suggested they get a bite of dinner. They climbed into his Audi and headed to a restaurant not far from CBI headquarters, on a rise overlooking the airport and, beyond that, the city of Monterey and the bay. They got a table on the deck, warmed with overhead propane heaters, and sipped a Viognier white wine. The sun was now melting into the Pacific, spreading out and growing violently orange. They watched it in silence as tourists nearby snapped pictures that would have to be Photoshopped to even approximate the grandeur of the real event.

They talked about her children, about their own childhoods. Where they were from originally. Boling commented that he believed only twenty percent of the Central Coast population comprised native Californians.

Silence flowed between them again. Dance sensed his shoulders rising and was expecting what came next.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure." She meant it, no reservations.

"When did your husband die?"

"About two years ago."

Two years, two months, three weeks. She could give him the days and hours too.

"I've never lost anybody. Not like that." Though there was a wistfulness in his voice, and his eyelids flickered like venetian blinds troubled by the wind. "What happened, you mind if I ask?"

"Not at all. Bill was an FBI agent, assigned to the local resident agency. But it wasn't work-related. An accident on Highway One. A truck. The driver fell asleep." A wisp of a laugh. "You know, I never thought about it until just now. But his fellow agents and friends put flowers by the roadside for about a year after it happened."

"A cross?"

"No, just flowers." She shook her head. "God, I hated that. The reminder. I'd drive miles out of my way to avoid the place."

"Must've been terrible."

Dance tried not to practice her skills as a kinesics expert when she was out socially. Sometimes she'd read the kids, sometimes she'd read a date. But she remembered when she'd caught Wes in some minor lie and he grumbled, "It's like you're Superman, Mom. You've got X-ray word vision." Now she was aware that, although Boling's face kept its sympathetic smile, his body language had subtly changed. The grip on his wineglass stem tightened. On his free hand, fingers rubbed compulsively. Behaviors she knew he wasn't even aware of.

Dance just needed to prime the pump. "Come on, Jon. Your turn to spill. What's your story? You've been pretty vague on the bachelor topic."

"Oh, nothing like your situation."

He was minimizing something that hurt, she could see that. She wasn't even a therapist, let alone his. But they'd spent some time under fire and she wanted to know what was troubling him. She touched his arm briefly. "Come on. Remember, I interrogate people for a living. I'll get it out of you sooner or later."

"I never go out with somebody who wants to waterboard me on the first date. Well, depending."

Jon Boling, Dance had come to realize, was a man who used clever quips as armor.

He continued, "This is the worst soap opera you'll ever hear… The girl I met after leaving Silicon Valley? She ran a bookstore in Santa Cruz. Bay Beach Books?"

"I think I've been there."

"We hit it off real well, Cassie and I. Did a lot of outdoor things together. Had some great times traveling. She even survived some visits to my family-well, actually it's only me who has trouble surviving those." He thought for a minute. "I think the thing is that we laughed a lot. That's a clue. What kind of movies do you like best? We watched comedies mostly. Okay, she was separated, not divorced. Legal separation. Cassie was completely honest about it. I knew it all up front. She was getting the paperwork together."

"Children?"

"She had two, yes. Boy and girl like you. Great kids. Split the time between her and her ex."

You mean, her not-quite-ex, Dance corrected silently, and, of course, knew the arc of the story.

He sipped some more of the cold, crisp wine. A breeze had come up and as the sun melted, the temperature fell. "Her ex was abusive. Not physically; he never hurt her or the kids, but he'd insult her, put her down." He gave an astonished laugh. "This wasn't right, that wasn't right. She was smart, kind, thoughtful. But he just kept dumping on her. I was thinking about this last night." His voice faded at that comment, having just given away a bit of data he wished he hadn't. "He was an emotional serial killer."

"That's a good way to put it."

"And naturally she went back to him." His face was still for a moment as he relived a specific incident, she supposed. Our hearts rarely respond to the abstract; it's the tiny slivers of sharp memory that sting so. Then the facade returned in the form of a tight-lipped smile. "He got transferred to China, and they went with him, Cassie and the kids. She said she was sorry, she'd always love me, but she had to go back to him… Never quite got the obligatory part in relationships. Like, you have to breathe, you have to eat…but staying with a jerk? I don't get the necessary. But here I am going on about…oh, shall we say an 'epic' bad call on my part, and you had a real tragedy."

Dance shrugged. "In my line of work, whether it's murder or manslaughter or criminally negligent homicide, a death's still a death. Just like love; when it goes away, for whatever reason, it hurts all the same."

"I guess. But all I'll say is it's a real bad idea to fall in love with somebody who's married."

Amen, thought Kathryn Dance again, and nearly laughed out loud. She tipped a touch more wine into her glass.

"How 'bout that," he said.

"What?"

"We've managed to bring up two extremely personal and depressing topics in a very short period of time. Good thing we're not on a date," he added with a grin.

Dance opened the menu. "Let's get some food. They have-"

"-the best calamari burgers in town here," Boling said.

She laughed. She'd been about to say exactly the same.

THE COMPUTER SEARCH was a bust.

She and the professor returned from their squid and salads to her office, both eager to see what Irv's bot had found. Boling sat down, scrolled through the file and announced with a sigh, "Zip."

"Nothing?"

"He just deleted those emails and files and research to save space. Nothing secretive, and nothing local at all."

The frustration was keen, but there was nothing more to do. "Thanks, Jon. At least I got a nice dinner out of it."

"Sorry." He looked truly disappointed that he couldn't be of more help. "I guess I better finish up grading those papers. And pack."

"That's right, your family reunion's this weekend."

He nodded. A tight smile and he said, "Woooo-hoooo," with forced enthusiasm.

Dance laughed.

He hovered near her. "I'll call you when I get back. I want to know how things work out. And good luck with Travis. I hope he's okay."

"Thanks, Jon. For everything." She took his hand and gripped it firmly. "And I especially appreciate your not getting stabbed to death."

A smile. He squeezed her hand and turned away.

As she watched him walk down the corridor a woman's voice interrupted her thoughts. "Hey, K."

Dance turned to see Connie Ramirez, walking down the hallway toward her.

"Con."

The other senior agent looked around and nodded toward Dance's office. Then stepped inside, closing the door. "Found a few things I thought you might be interested in. From the hospital."

"Oh, thanks, Con. How'd you do it?"

Ramirez considered this. "I was deceptively honest."

"I like that."

"I flashed my shield and gave them some details of another case I'm running. That medical fraud case."

The CBI investigated financial crimes too. And the case Ramirez was referring to was a major insurance scam-the perps used identification numbers of doctors who were deceased to file bogus claims in their names.

It was the sort of thing, Dance reflected, that Chilton himself might write about in his blog. And it was a brilliant choice for Connie; staffers at the hospital were among the victims, and would have an interest in helping investigators.

"I asked them to show me the log-in sheets. The whole month's worth, so Henry didn't get suspicious. They were more than happy to comply. And here's what I found: The day Juan Millar died there was one visiting physician-the hospital has a continuing-ed lecture series and he was probably there for that. There were also six job applicants-two for maintenance spots, one for the cafeteria and three nurses. I've got copies of their résumés. None of them look suspicious to me.

"Now, what's interesting is this: There were sixty-four visitors at the hospital that day. I correlated the names and the people they were there to see, and every one of them checks out. Except one."

"Who?"

"It's hard to read the name, either the printed version or the signature. But I think it's Jose Lopez."

"Who was he seeing?"

"He only wrote 'patient'."

"That was a safe bet, in a hospital," Dance said wryly. "Why is it suspicious?"

"Well, I figured that if somebody was there to kill Juan Millar, he or she would have to have been there before-either as visitors or to check out security and so on. So I looked at everybody who'd signed in to see him earlier."

"Brilliant. And you checked their handwriting."

"Exactly. I'm no document examiner but I found a visitor who'd been to see him a number of times, and I'd almost guarantee the handwriting's the same as this Jose Lopez's."

Dance was sitting forward. "Who?"

"Julio Millar."

"His brother!"

"I'm ninety percent sure. I made copies of everything." Ramirez handed Dance sheets of paper.

"Oh, Connie, this is brilliant."

"Good luck. If you need anything else, just ask."

Dance sat alone in her office, considering this new information. Could Julio actually have killed his brother?

At first, it seemed impossible, given the loyalty and love that Julio displayed for his young sibling. Yet there was no doubt that the killing had been an act of mercy, and Dance could imagine a conversation between the two brothers-Julio leaning forward as Juan whispered a plea to put him out of his misery.

Kill me…

Besides, why else would Julio have faked a name on the sign-in sheet?

Why had Harper and the state investigators missed this connection? She was furious, and had a suspicion that they knew about it, but were downplaying the possibility because it would be better publicity against the death-with-dignity act for Robert Harper to go after the mother of a state law enforcement agent. Thoughts of prosecutorial malfeasance buzzed around her head.

Dance called George Sheedy and left a message about what Connie Ramirez had found. She then called her mother to tell her directly about it. There was no answer.

Damnit. Was she screening calls?

She disconnected then sat back, thinking about Travis. If he was alive, how much longer would he have? A few days, without water. And what a terrible death it would be.

Another shadow in her doorway. TJ Scanlon appeared, "Hey, boss."

She sensed something was urgent.

"Crime scene results?"

"Not yet, but I'm riding ' em hard. Rawhide , remember? This's something else. Heard from MCSO. They got a call-anonymous-about the Crosses Case."

Dance sat up slightly. "What was it?"

"The caller said he'd spotted, quote, 'something near Harrison Road and Pine Grove Way.' Just south of Carmel."

"Nothing more than that?"

"Nope. Just 'something.' I checked the intersection. It's near that abandoned construction site. And the call was from a pay phone."

Dance debated for a moment. Her eyes dipped to a sheet of paper, a copy of the postings on The Chilton Report. She rose and pulled on her jacket.

"You going to go over there to check it out?" TJ asked uncertainly.

"Yep. Really want to find him, if there's any way."

"Kind of a weird area, boss. Want backup?"

She smiled. "I don't think I'm going to be in much danger."

Not with the perp presently residing in the Monterey County morgue.

THE CEILING OF the basement was painted black. It contained eighteen rafters, also black. The walls were a dingy white, cheap paint, and were made up of 892 cinder blocks. Against the wall were two cabinets, one gray metal, one uneven white wood. Inside were large stocks of canned goods, boxes of pasta, soda and wine, tools, nails, personal items like toothpaste and deodorant.

Four metal poles rose to the dim ceiling, supporting the first floor. Three were close to each other, one farther away. They were painted dark brown but they were also rusty and it was hard to tell where the paint ended and the oxidation began.

The floor was concrete and the cracks made shapes that became familiar if you stared at them long enough: a sitting panda, the state of Texas, a truck.

An old furnace, dusty and battered, sat in the corner. It ran on natural gas and switched on only rarely. Even then, though, it didn't heat this area much at all.

The size of the basement was thirty-seven feet by twenty-eight, which could be calculated easily from the cinder blocks, which were exactly twelve inches wide by nine high, though you had to add an eighth of an inch to each one for the mortar that glued them together.

A number of creatures lived down here too. Spiders, mostly. You could count seven families, if that was what spiders lived in, and they seemed to stake out territories so as not to offend-or get eaten by-the others. Beetles and centipedes too. Occasional mosquitoes and flies.

Something larger had shown an interest in the stacks of food and beverages in the far corner of the basement, a mouse or a rat. But it'd grown timid and left, never to return.

Or been poisoned and died.

One window, high in the wall, admitted opaque light but no view; it was painted over, off-white. The hour was now probably 8:00 or 9:00 p.m.-since the window was nearly dark.

The thick silence was suddenly shattered as footsteps pounded across the first floor, above. A pause. Then the front door opened, and slammed shut.

At last.

Finally, now that his kidnapper had left, Travis Brigham could relax. The way the schedule of the past few days had turned out, once his captor left at night he wouldn't be back till morning. Travis now curled up in the bed, pulling the gamy blanket around him. This was the high point of his day: sleep.

At least in sleep, Travis had learned, he could find some respite from despair.

Chapter 39

The fog was thick and briskly streamed overhead as Dance turned off the highway and began to meander down winding Harrison Road. This area was south of Carmel proper-on the way to Point Lobos and Big Sur beyond-and was deserted, mostly hilly woods; a little farmland remained.

Coincidentally it was close to the ancient Ohlone Indian land near which Arnold Brubaker hoped to build his desalination plant.

Smelling pine and eucalyptus, Dance slowly followed her headlights-low beams because of the fog-along the road. Occasional driveways led into darkness broken by dots of light. She passed several cars, also driving slowly, coming from the opposite direction, and she wondered if it had been a driver who'd called in the anonymous report that had sent her here, or one of the residents.

Something…

That was certainly a possibility but Harrison Road was also a shortcut from Highway 1 to Carmel Valley Road. The call could have come from anybody.

She soon arrived at Pine Grove Way and pulled over.

The construction site that the anonymous caller had mentioned was a half-completed hotel complex-now never to be finished, since the main building had burned under suspicious circumstances. Insurance fraud was initially suspected but the perps turned out to be environmentalists who didn't want the land scarred by the development. (Ironically, the green terrorists miscalculated; the fire spread and destroyed hundreds of acres of pristine woods.)

Most of the wilderness had grown back, but for various reasons the hotel project never got under way again and the complex remained as it now was: several acres of derelict buildings and foundations dug deep in the loamy ground. The area was surrounded by leaning chain-link fences marked with Danger and No Trespassing signs, but a couple of times a year or so teens would have to be rescued after falling into a pit or getting trapped in the ruins while smoking pot or drinking or, in one case, having sex in the least comfortable and unromantic location imaginable.

It was also spooky as hell.

Dance grabbed her flashlight from the glove compartment and climbed out of her Crown Vic.

The damp breeze wafted over her, and she shivered with a jolt of fear.

Relax.

She gave a wry laugh, clicked on the flashlight and started forward, sweeping the Magna-Lite beam over the ground tangled with brush.

A car swept past on the highway, tires sticky on the damp asphalt. It eased around a corner and the sound stopped instantly as if the vehicle had beamed into a different dimension.

As she looked around her, Dance was supposing that the "something" the anonymous caller had reported was the last roadside cross, the one intended to announce James Chilton's death.

There was, however, none to be seen in the immediate vicinity.

What else could the person have meant?

Could they have seen or heard Travis himself?

This would be a perfect place to stash him.

She paused and listened for any calls for help.

Nothing but the breeze through the oaks and pines.

Oaks…Dance pictured one of the improvised roadside crosses. Pictured the one in her backyard too.

Should she call in and order a search? Not just yet. Keep looking.

She wished she had the anonymous caller here. Even the most reluctant witness could be the source of all the information she needed; look at Tammy Foster, whose lack of cooperation hadn't slowed down the investigation at all.

Tammy's computer. It's got the answer. Well, maybe not the answer. But an answer…

But she didn't have the caller; she had her flashlight and a spooky, deserted construction site.

Looking for "something."

Dance now slipped through one of the several gates in the chain link, the metal bent by years of trespassers, and eased through the grounds, moving slowly. The main building had collapsed completely under the flames. And the others-service sheds, garages and complexes of hotel rooms-were boarded up. There were a half dozen open foundation pits. They were marked with orange warning signs, but the fog was thick and reflected back much light into Dance's eyes; she moved carefully for fear of tumbling down into one.

Easing through the compound, one step at a time, pausing, looking for footprints.

What the hell had the caller seen?

Then, Dance heard a noise in the distance, but not that distant. A loud snap. Another.

She froze.

Deer, she guessed. They were plentiful in the area. But other animals lived here too. Last year a mountain lion had killed a tourist jogging not far from here. The animal had sliced the poor woman apart then vanished. Dance unbuttoned her jacket and tapped the butt of her Glock for reassurance.

Another snap then a creak.

Like a hinge of an old door opening.

Dance shivered in fear, reflecting that just because the Roadside Cross Killer was no longer a threat, that didn't mean meth cookers or gangbangers weren't hanging around here.

But heading back never entered her mind. Travis could be here. Keep going.

Another forty feet or so into the compound, Dance was looking for the structures that might house a kidnap victim, looking for buildings with padlocks, looking for footprints.

She thought she heard another sound-almost a moan. Dance came close to calling out the boy's name. But instinct told her not to.

And then she stopped fast.

A human figure was silhouetted in the fog no more than ten yards away. Crouching, she thought.

She gasped, clicked the light out and drew her gun.

Another look. Whoever-whatever-it might have been was gone.

But the image wasn't imagination. She was certain she'd seen somebody, male, she believed from the kinesics.

Now, footsteps were sounding clearly. Branches snapping, leaves rustling. He was flanking her, to her right. Moving, then pausing.

Dance fondled the cell phone in her pocket. But if she made a call, her voice would give away her position. And she had to assume that whoever was here in the dark on a damp, foggy night wasn't present for innocent purposes.

Retrace your steps, she told herself. Back to the car. Now. Thinking of the shotgun in her trunk, a weapon she'd fired once. In training.

Dance turned around and moved quickly, every step making a loud crinkle through the leaves. Every step shouting, Here I am, here I am.

She stopped. The intruder didn't. His steps telegraphed his transit over the leaves and underbrush as he continued on, somewhere in the dark fog to her right.

Then they stopped.

Had he stopped too? Or was he on leafless ground, moving in for an attack?

Just get back to the car, get under cover, rack the 12-gauge and call in backup.

It was fifty, sixty feet back to the chain-link fence. In the dim ambient light-moon diffused by fog-she surveyed the ground. Some places seemed less leaf-strewn than others, but there was no way to proceed quietly. She told herself she couldn't wait any longer.

But still the stalker was silent.

Was he hiding?

Had he left?

Or was he coming up close under cover of the dense foliage?

Near panicking, Dance whirled but saw nothing other than the ghosts of buildings, trees, some large tanks, half buried and rusting.

Dance crouched, wincing from the pain in her joints-from the chase, and the tumble, the other day at Travis's house. Then she moved toward the fence as quickly as she could. Resisting the nearly overwhelming urge to break into a run over ground strewn with construction-site booby traps.

Twenty-five feet to the chain link.

A snap nearby.

She stopped fast, dropped to her knees and lifted her weapon, searching for a target. She was holding her flashlight in her left hand and nearly clicked it on. But instinct once again told her not to. In the fog the beam would half blind her and give the intruder a perfect target.

Not far away a raccoon slipped from a hiding place and moved stiffly away, its kinesic message irritation at the disturbance.

Dance rose, turned back toward the fence and moved quickly over the leaves, looking behind her often. Nobody was in pursuit that she could see. Finally she pushed through the gate and began jogging toward her car, cell phone in her left hand, open, as she scrolled through previously dialed listings.

It was then that a voice from very close behind her echoed through the night. "Don't move," the man said. "I have a gun."

Heart slamming, Dance froze. He'd flanked her completely, gotten through another gate or silently scaled the fence.

She debated: If he was armed and wanted to kill her she'd be dead by now. And, with the mist and dimness, maybe he hadn't seen her weapon in her hand.

"I want you down on the ground. Now."

Dance began to turn.

"No! On the ground!"

But she kept turning until she was facing the intruder and his outstretched arm.

Shit. He was armed, the gun aimed directly at her.

But then she looked at the man's face and blinked. He wore a Monterey County Sheriff's Office uniform. She recognized him. It was the young, blue-eyed deputy who'd helped her out several times earlier. David Reinhold.

"Kathryn?"

"What are you doing here?"

Reinhold shook his head, a faint smile on his face. He didn't answer, just looked around. He lowered his weapon, but didn't slip it back into the holster. "Was it you? In there?" he finally asked, glancing back to the construction site.

She nodded.

Reinhold continued to look around, tense, his kinesics giving off signals that he was still ready for combat.

Then a tinny voice said from her side, "Boss, that you? You calling?"

Reinhold blinked at the sound.

Dance lifted her mobile and said, "TJ, you there?" When she'd heard the intruder come up behind her she'd hit "Dial."

"Yeah, boss. What's up?"

"I'm at that construction site off Harrison. I'm here with Deputy Reinhold from the sheriff's office."

"Did you find anything?" the young agent asked.

Dance felt her legs going weak, her heart pounding, now that the initial fright was over. "Not yet. I'll call you back."

"Got it, boss."

They disconnected.

Reinhold finally holstered his weapon. He inhaled slowly and puffed air out of his smooth cheeks. "That just about scared the you-know-what out of me."

Dance asked him, "What are you doing here?"

He explained that the MCSO had gotten a call an hour ago about "something" having to do with the case near the intersection of Pine Grove and Harrison.

The call that had spurred Dance to come here.

Since Reinhold had worked on the case, he explained, he'd volunteered to check it out. He'd been searching the construction site when he'd seen the beam of a flashlight and come closer to investigate. He hadn't recognized Dance in the fog and was worried that she might be a meth cooker or drug dealer.

"Did you find anything that suggests Travis is here?"

"Travis?" he asked slowly. "No. Why, Kathryn?"

"Just seems that this'd be a pretty good place to hide a kidnap victim."

"Well, I searched pretty carefully," the young deputy told her. "Didn't see a thing."

"Still," she said. "I want to be sure."

And called TJ back to arrange for a search party.

IN THE END they did learn what the anonymous caller had seen.

The discovery was made not by Dance or Reinhold, but by Rey Carraneo, who'd come here along with a half dozen other officers from the CHP, the MCSO and the CBI.

The "something" was a roadside cross. It had been planted on Pine Grove, not Harrison Road, about a hundred feet from the intersection.

But the memorial had nothing to do with Greg Schaeffer or Travis Brigham or the blog entries.

Dance sighed angrily.

This cross was fancier than the others, carefully made, and the flowers below it were daisies and tulips, not roses.

Another difference was that this one had a name on it. Two, in fact.

Juan Millar, R.I.P. Murdered by Edith Dance

Left by somebody from Life First-the anonymous caller, of course.

Angrily, she plucked it from the ground and flung it into the compound.

With nothing to search, and no evidence to examine, no witnesses to interview, Kathryn Dance trudged back to her car and returned home, wondering just how fitful her sleep would be.

If indeed she could sleep at all.