Roadside Crosses: A Kathryn Dance Novel (38 page)

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 roadblock, 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.”