Roadside Crosses: A Kathryn Dance Novel (18 page)

“I’m very sorry for that. But
The Report
is too important to jeopardize. And if people think they can’t post anonymously it’ll change the integrity of the entire blog.”

“I’d like you to reconsider.”

The blogger’s strident facade faded. “That man I was meeting with when you got here?”

She nodded.

“Gregory Ashton.” He said this with some intensity, the way people will when speaking about someone significant to them, but who have no meaning to you. Chilton noted the blank expression. He continued, “He’s starting a new network of blogs and websites, one of the biggest in the world. I’ll be at the flagship level. He’s spending millions to promote it.”

This was the issue that Boling had explained to her. Ashton must have been the one behind the RSS feed Chilton was referring to in the “We’re Going Global” posting.

“That expands the scope of
The Report
exponentially. I can take on problems around the world. AIDS in Africa, human rights violations in Indonesia, atrocities in Kashmir, environmental disasters in Brazil. But if word were to get out that I gave away the Internet address of my posters, that could put the sanctity of
The Report
at risk.”

Dance was frustrated, though part of her, as a former journalist, grudgingly understood. Chilton wasn’t resisting out of greed or ego, but from a genuine passion for his readers.

Though that hardly helped her out.

“People could die,” she persisted.

“This question has come up before, Agent Dance. The responsibility of bloggers.” He stiffened slightly. “A few years ago I did an exclusive post about a well-known writer who I found out had plagiarized some passages from another novelist. He claimed it was an accident, and begged me not to run the story. But I
ran it anyway. He started drinking again and his life fell apart. Was that my goal? God, no. But either the rules exist or they don’t. Why should he get away with cheating when you and I don’t?

“I did a blog about a deacon from San Francisco who was head of an antigay movement—and, it turned out, a closet homosexual. I had to expose the hypocrisy.” He looked right into Dance’s eyes. “And the man killed himself. Because of what I wrote. Killed himself. I live with that every day. But did I do the right thing? Yes. If Travis attacks somebody else, then I’ll feel terrible about that too. But we’re dealing with bigger issues here, Agent Dance.”

“I was a reporter too,” she said.

“You were?”

“Crime reporter. I’m against censorship completely. We’re not talking about the same thing. I’m not telling you to change your postings. I just want to know the names of people who’ve posted so we can protect them.”

“Can’t do it.” The flint was back in his voice. He looked at his watch. She knew the interview was over. He rose.

Still, one last shot. “No one will ever know. We’ll say we found out through other means.”

Escorting her to the door, Chilton gave a genuine laugh. “Secrets in the blogosphere, Agent Dance? Do you know how fast word spreads in today’s world? . . . At the speed of light.”

AS SHE DROVE
along the highway, Kathryn Dance called Jon Boling.

“How did it go?” he asked brightly.

“What was that phrase that was in the blog about Travis? One of the kids posted it. ‘Epic’ something . . .”

“Oh.” Less cheer now. “Epic fail.”

“Yeah, that describes it pretty well. I tried for the good-publicity approach but he went for door number two: the fascists trammeling free press. With a touch of ‘the world needs me.’ ”

“Ouch. Sorry about that. Bad call.”

“It was worth a shot. But I think you’d better start trying to get as many names as you can on your own.”

“I already have. Just in case Chilton gave you the boot. I should have some names soon. Oh, did he say he’d get even in a blog posting about you for suggesting it?”

She chuckled. “Came close. The headline would’ve been ‘CBI agent in attempted bribe.’ ”

“I doubt he will—you’re small potatoes. Nothing personal. But with hundreds of thousands of people reading what he writes, he sure does have the power to make you worry.” Then Boling’s voice grew somber.
“I should tell you the postings are getting worse. Some of the posters are saying they’ve seen Travis doing devil worship, sacrificing animals. And there are stories about him groping other students, girls and boys. All sounds bogus to me, though. It’s like they’re trying to one-up each other. The stories are getting more outlandish.”

Rumors . . .

“The one thing that’s a recurring reference, which makes me think there’s some truth in it, is the online role-playing games. They’re talking about the kid being obsessed with fighting and death. Especially with swords and knives and slashing his victims.”

“He’s slipped into the synthetic world.”

“Seems that way.”

After they disconnected, Dance turned up the volume on her iPod Touch—she was listening to Badi Assad, the beautiful Brazilian guitarist and singer. It was illegal to listen through the ear buds while driving, but running the music through the speakers in a cop car didn’t produce the most faithful sound quality.

And she needed a serious dose of soul-comforting music.

Dance felt the urgency to pursue the case, but she was a mother too and she’d always balanced her two worlds. She’d now pick up her children from her mother’s care at the hospital, spend a little time with them and drop them off at her parents’ house, where Stuart Dance would resume baby-sitting, after he returned from his meeting at the aquarium. And she would head back to the CBI to continue the hunt for Travis Brigham.

She continued the drive in the big, unmarked CVPI—her Police Interceptor Ford. It handled like a combination race car and tank. Not that Dance had ever pushed the vehicle to its limits. She wasn’t a natural driver and, though she’d taken the required high-speed-pursuit course in Sacramento, couldn’t picture herself actually chasing another driver along the winding roads of central California. With this thought, an image from the blog came to mind—the photo of the roadside crosses at the site of the terrible accident on Highway 1 on June 9, the tragedy that had set all of this subsequent horror in motion.

She now pulled up in the hospital lot and noticed several California Highway Patrol cars, and two unmarkeds, parked in front of the hospital. She couldn’t remember a report about any police action involving injuries. Climbing from the car, she observed a change in the protesters. For one thing, there were more of them. Three dozen or so. And they’d been joined by two more news crews.

Also, she noticed, they were boisterous, waving their placards and crosses like sports fans. Smiling, chanting. Dance noticed that the Reverend Fisk was being approached by several men, shaking his hands in sequence. His red-haired minder was carefully scanning the parking lot.

And then Dance froze, gasping.

Walking out the front door of the hospital were Wes and Maggie—faces grim—accompanied by an African-American woman in a navy blue suit. She was directing them to one of the unmarked sedans.

Robert Harper, the special prosecutor she’d met outside Charles Overby’s office, emerged.

And behind him walked Dance’s mother. Edie Dance was flanked by two large uniformed CHP troopers, and she was in handcuffs.

DANCE JOGGED FORWARD
.

“Mom!” twelve-year-old Wes shouted and ran across the parking lot, pulling his sister after him.

“Wait, you can’t do that!” shouted the woman who’d been accompanying them. She started forward, fast.

Dance knelt, embracing her son and daughter.

The woman’s stern voice resounded across the parking lot. “We’re taking the children—”

“You’re not taking anybody,” Dance growled, then turned again to her children: “Are you all right?”

“They arrested Grandma!” Maggie said, tears welling. Her chestnut braid hung limply over her shoulder, where it had jumped in the run.

“I’ll talk to them in a minute.” Dance rose. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

“No.” Lean Wes, nearly as tall as his mother, said in a shaky voice, “They just, that woman and the police, they just came and got us and said they’re taking us someplace, I don’t know where.”

“I don’t want to leave you, Mommy!” Maggie clung to her tightly.

Dance reassured her daughter, “Nobody’s taking you anywhere. Okay, go get in the car.”

The woman in the blue suit approached and said in a low tone, “Ma’am, I’m afraid—” And found herself talking to Dance’s CBI identification card and shield, thrust close to her face. “The children are going with me,” Dance said.

The woman read the ID, unimpressed. “It’s procedure. You understand. It’s for their own good. We’ll get it all sorted out and if everything checks out—”

“The children are going with me.”

“I’m a social worker with Monterey County Child Services.” Her own ID appeared.

Dance was thinking that there were probably negotiations that should be going on at the moment but still she pulled her handcuffs out of her back holster in a smooth motion and swung them open like a large crab claw. “Listen to me. I’m their mother. You know my identity. You know theirs. Now back off, or I’m arresting you under California Penal Code section two-oh-seven.”

Observing this, the TV reporters seemed to stiffen as one, like a lizard sensing the approach of an oblivious beetle. Cameras swung their way.

The woman turned toward Robert Harper, who seemed to debate. He glanced at the reporters and apparently decided that, in this situation, bad publicity was worse than no publicity. He nodded.

Dance smiled to her children, hitching the cuffs away, and walked them to her car. “It’s going to be okay. Don’t worry. This is just a big mix-up.” She closed the door, locking it with the remote. She stormed past the social worker, who was glaring back with sleek, defiant eyes, and approached her mother, who was being eased into the back of a squad car.

“Honey!” Edie Dance exclaimed.

“Mom, what’s—”

“You can’t talk to the prisoner,” Harper said.

She whirled and faced Harper, who was exactly
her height. “Don’t play games with me. What’s this all about?”

He regarded her calmly. “She’s being taken to the county lockup for processing and a bail hearing. She’s been arrested and informed of her rights. I have no obligation to say anything to you.”

The cameras continued to pick up every second of the drama.

Edie Dance called, “They said I killed Juan Millar!”

“Please be quiet, Mrs. Dance.”

The agent raged at Harper, “That ‘caseload evaluation’? It was just bullshit, right?”

Harper easily ignored her.

Dance’s cell phone rang and she stepped aside to answer it. “Dad.”

“Katie, I just got home and found the police here. State police. They’re searching everything. Mrs. Kensington next door said they took away a couple of boxes of things.”

“Dad, Mom’s been arrested. . . .”

“What?”

“That mercy killing. Juan Millar.”

“Oh, Katie.”

“I’m taking the kids to Martine’s, then meet me at the courthouse in Salinas. She’s going to be booked and there’ll be a bond hearing.”

“Sure. I . . . I don’t know what to do, honey.” His voice broke.

It cut her deeply to hear her own father—normally unflappable and in control—sounding so helpless.

“We’ll get it worked out,” she said, trying to sound confident but feeling just as uncertain and confused
as he would be. “I’ll call later, Dad.” They disconnected.

“Mom,” she called through the car window, looking down at her mother’s grim face. “It’ll be all right. I’ll see you at the courthouse.”

The prosecutor said sternly, “Agent Dance, I don’t want to remind you again. No talking to the prisoner.”

She ignored Harper. “And don’t say a word to anyone,” she warned her mother.

“I hope we’re not going to have a security problem here,” the prosecutor said stiffly.

Dance glared back, silently defying him to make good on his threat, whatever it might be. Then she glanced at the CHP troopers nearby, one of whom she’d worked with. His eyes avoided hers. Everybody was in Harper’s pocket on this one.

She turned and strode back toward her car, but diverted to the woman social worker.

Dance stood close. “Those children have cell phones. I’m number two on speed dial, right after nine-one-one. And I
guarantee
they told you I’m a law enforcement officer. Why the fuck didn’t you call me?”

The woman blinked and reared back. “You can’t talk to me that way.”

“Why the fuck didn’t you call?”

“I was following procedures.”

“Procedures are the welfare of the child comes first. You contact the parent or guardian in circumstances like this.”

“Well, I was doing what I was told.”

“How long’ve you had this job?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Well, I’ll tell you, miss. There’re two answers: either not long enough, or way
too
long.”

“You can’t—”

But Dance was gone by then and climbing back into her car, grinding the starter; she’d never shut the engine off when she’d arrived.

“Mom,” Maggie asked, weeping with heartbreaking whimpers. “What’s going to happen to Grandma?”

Dance wasn’t going to put on a false facade for the children; she’d learned as a parent that in the end it was better to confront pain and fear, rather than to deny or defer them. But she had to struggle to keep panic from her voice. “Your grandmother’s going to see a judge and I hope she’ll be home soon. Then we’re going to find out what’s happened. We just don’t know yet.”

She’d take the children to the home of her best friend, Martine Christensen, with whom she operated her music website.

“I don’t like that man,” Wes said.

“Who?”

“Mr. Harper.”

“I don’t like him either,” Dance said.

“I want to go to the courthouse with you,” Maggie said.

“No, Mags. I don’t know how long I’m going to be there.”

Dance glanced back and gave a reassuring smile to the children.