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.”