"Aren't you here because of Arnie Brubaker?"
"No. Who's that?"
"He's the man who wants to destroy our shoreline by putting in that desalination plant."
She recalled the blog postings in The Chilton Report critical of the plant. And the bumper sticker.
"No, this has nothing to do with that."
Chilton's forehead crinkled. "He'd love to stop me. I thought maybe he'd trumped up some criminal complaint. But sorry. I was making assumptions." The defensiveness in his face relaxed. "It's just, well, Brubaker's really a . . . pain."
Dance wondered what the intended descriptive of the developer was going to have been.
"Excuse me." Patrizia appeared in the doorway and brought her husband a fresh cup of tea. She asked Dance if she'd like anything. She was smiling now but still eyed the agent suspiciously.
"Thanks, no."
Chilton nodded at the tea and charmingly winked his thanks to his wife. She left and closed the door behind her.
"So, what can I do for you?"
"Your blog about the roadside crosses."
"Oh, the car accident?" He regarded Dance closely. Some of the defensiveness was back; she could read the stress in his posture. "I've been following the news. That girl was attacked, the press is saying, because she posted something on the blog. The posters are starting to say the same thing. You want the boy's name."
"No. We have it."
"Is he the one who tried to drown her?"
"It seems so."
Chilton said quickly, "I didn't attack him. My point was, did the police drop the ball on the investigation and did Caltrans adequately maintain the road? I said up front that he wasn't to blame. And I censored his name."
"It didn't take long for a mob to form and find out who he is."
Chilton's mouth twisted. He'd taken the comment as criticism of him or the blog, which it wasn't. But he conceded. "That does happen. Well, what can I do for you?"
"We have reason to believe that Travis Brigham may be considering attacking other people who posted comments against him."
"Are you sure?"
"No, but we have to consider it's a possibility."
Chilton grimaced. "I mean, can't you arrest him?"
"We're looking for him now. We aren't sure where he is."
"I see." Chilton said this slowly and Dance could see from his lifted shoulders and the tension in his neck he was wondering what exactly she wanted. The agent considered Jon Boling's advice and said, "Now, your blog is known all over the world. It's very respected. That's one of the reasons so many people are posting on it."
The flash of pleasure in his eyes was faint but obvious to Dance; it told her that even obvious flattery went down very well with James Chilton.
"But the problem is that all the posters attacking Travis are potential targets. And the number's increasing every hour."
"The Report has one of the highest hit ratings in the country. It's the most-read blog in California."
"I'm not surprised. I really enjoy it." Keeping an eye on her own mannerisms, so as not to telegraph the deception.
"Thank you." A full smile joined the eye crinkle.
"But see what we're facing: Every time somebody posts to the 'Roadside Crosses' thread they become a possible target. Some of those people are completely anonymous, some are out of the area. But some are nearby and we're afraid Travis will find out their identities. And then he'll go after them too."
"Oh," Chilton said, his smile vanishing. His quick mind made the leap. "And you're here for their Internet addresses."
"For their protection."
"I can't give those out."
"But these people are at risk."
"This country operates on the principle of separation of media and state." As if this flippant recitation skewered her argument.
"That girl was thrown into a trunk and left to drown. Travis could be planning another attack right now."
Chilton held up a finger, shushing her like a schoolteacher. "It's a slippery slope. Agent Dance, who do you work for? Your ultimate boss?"
"The attorney general."
"Okay, well, say I give you the addresses of posters on the 'Roadside Crosses' thread. Then next month you come back and ask for the address of a whistleblower who was fired by the attorney general for, oh, let's pick harassment. Or maybe you want the address of somebody who posted a comment critical of the governor. Or the president. Or--how 'bout this--someone who says something favorable about al-Qaeda? You say to me: 'You gave me the information last time. Why not again?'"
"There won't be an again."
"You say that but . . ." As if government employees lied with every breath. "Does this boy know you're after him?"
"Yes."
"Then he's run off somewhere, wouldn't you think? He's not going to show himself by attacking somebody else. Not if the police are looking for him." His voice was stern.
Hers was reasonable as she continued slowly, "Still. You know, Mr. Chilton, sometimes life is about compromises."
She let this comment linger.
He cocked an eyebrow, waiting.
"If you gave us the addresses--just of the locals who wrote the most vicious posts about Travis--we'd really appreciate it. Maybe . . . well, maybe we could do something to help you, if you ever needed a hand."
"Like what?"
Thinking again about Boling's suggestions, she said, "We'd be happy to issue a statement about your cooperation. Good publicity."
Chilton considered this. But then frowned. "No. If I were to help you it'd probably be best not to mention it."
She was pleased; he was negotiating. "Okay, I can understand that. But maybe there's something else we could do."
"Really? What?"
Thinking about another suggestion the professor had made, she said, "Maybe, well, if you need any contacts in the California law enforcement agencies. . . . Sources. High-up ones."
He leaned forward, eyes flaring. "So you are trying to bribe me. I thought so. Just had to draw you out a little. Got you, Agent Dance."
She sat back as if she'd been slapped.
Chilton continued, "Appealing to my public spirit is one thing. This . . ." He waved his hand at her. ". . . is distasteful. And corrupt, if you ask me. It's the kind of maneuvering I expose in my blog every day."
Of course, the other thing he might do is consider your request an invasion of journalistic ethics. In which case he'll slam the door in your face.
"Tammy Foster was almost killed. There could be others."
"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 b
efore, 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--"
"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.