“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.”
Chapter 13
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—”