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 jo
gging 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.”
“Who is he?” O’Neil asked. “Why was he picked?”
Dance dug into her jacket pocket and retrieved the list of everyone mentioned in the blog who might be a potential target.
“He posted in the blog—a reply to the ‘Power to the People’ thread. About the nuclear plant. It doesn’t agree or disagree with Chilton about the location of the plant. It’s neutral.”
“So anybody connected to the blog at all could be at risk now.”
“I’d think so.”
O’Neil looked her over. He touched her arm. “You okay?”
“Just . . . kind of a scare.”
She found herself thumbing Jon Boling’s card. She told O’Neil she was going to see what he wanted and began down the path, her heart only now returning to a normal beat from the fright.
At the roadside she found the professor standing beside his car, the door open. She frowned. In the passenger seat was a teenager with spiky hair. He was wearing an Aerosmith T-shirt under a dark brown jacket.
Boling waved to her. She was struck by the look of urgency on his face, unusual for him.
And by the intensity of the relief she felt that he was all right.
Which gave way to curiosity when she saw what was stuck in the waistband of his slacks; she couldn’t tell for certain but it seemed to be the hilt of a large knife.
Chapter 31
DANCE, BOLING AND the teenager were in her office at the CBI. Jason Kepler was a seventeen-year-old student in Carmel South High, and he, not Travis, was Stryker.
Travis had created the avatar years ago, but he’d sold it online to Jason, along with “like, a shitload of Reputation, Life Points and Resources.”
Whatever those were.
Dance recalled that Boling had told her that players could sell their avatars and other accoutrements of the game.
The professor explained about his finding a reference in Travis’s data to the Lighthouse Arcade’s hours of operation.
Dance was grateful for the man’s brilliant detective work. (Though she was absolutely going to dress him down later for not calling 911 immediately upon learning that the boy was at the arcade and for going after him alone.) On her desk behind them, in an evidence envelope, was the kitchen knife that Jason had used to threaten Boling. It was a deadly weapon and he was technically guilty of assault and battery. Still, since Boling hadn’t actually been injured and the boy had voluntarily handed over the blade to the professor, she was probably going to be satisfied with giving the kid a stern warning.
Boling now explained what had happened: he himself had been the victim of a sting, orchestrated by the young teen who sat before them now. “Tell her what you told me.”
“What it is, I was worried about Travis,” Jason told them wide-eyed. “You don’t know what it’s like seeing somebody who’s in your family getting attacked like he was, in the blog.”
“Your family?”
“Yeah. In the game, in DQ, we’re brothers. I mean, we’ve never met or anything, but I know him real good.”
“Never met?”
“Well, sure, but not in the real world, only in Aetheria. I wanted to help him. But I had to find him first. I tried calling and IM’ing and I couldn’t get through. All I could think of was hanging out at the arcade. Maybe I could talk him into turning himself in.”
“With a knife?” Dance asked.
His shoulders lifted, then sagged. “I figured it couldn’t hurt.”
The boy was skinny and unhealthily pale. Here it was summer vacation and, ironically, he probably got outside now far less often than in the fall and winter, when he’d have to go to school.
Boling took over the narrative. “Jason was in the Lighthouse Arcade when I got there. The manager was a friend of his and when I asked about Stryker he pretended to go check out something but instead he told Jason about me.”
“Hey, I’m sorry, man. I wasn’t going to stab you or anything. I just wanted to find out who you were and if you had any idea where Travis was. I didn’t know you were with this Bureau of Investigation thing.”
Boling gave a sheepish smile at the impersonation-of-an-officer part. He added that he knew she’d want to talk to Jason but he thought it best to take him directly to her, rather than wait for the city police to show up.
“We just jumped in the car and called TJ. He told us where you were.”
It was a good decision, and only marginally illegal.
Dance now said, “Jason, we don’t want Travis to get hurt either. And we don’t want him to hurt anybody else. What can you tell us about where he might go?”
“He could be anywhere. He’s really smart, you know. He knows how to live outside in the woods. He’s an expert.” The boy noted their confusion and said, “See, DQ’s a game, but it’s also real. I mean, you’re in the Southern Mountains, it gets like fifty below zero, and you have to learn how to stay warm and if you don’t you’ll freeze to death. And you have to get food and water and everything. You learn what plants’re safe and what animals you can eat. And how to cook and st
ore food. I mean, they have real recipes. You have to cook them right in the game or they don’t work.” He laughed. “There’ve been newbies who’ve tried to play and they’re like, ‘All we want to do is fight trolls and demons,’ and they end up starving to death because they couldn’t take care of themselves.”
“You play with other people, don’t you? Could any of them know where Travis might be?”
“Like, I asked everybody in the family and nobody knows where he is.”
“How many are in your family?”
“About twelve of us. But him and me are the only ones in California.”
Dance was fascinated. “And you all live together? In Aetheria?”
“Yeah. I know them better than I know my real brothers.” He gave a grim laugh. “And in Aetheria, they don’t beat me up and steal money from me.”
Dance was curious. “You have parents?”
“In the real world?” He shrugged, a gesture Dance interpreted as meaning “Sort of.”
She said, “No, in the game.”
“Some families do. We don’t.” He gave a wistful look. “We’re happier that way.”
She was smiling. “You know, you and I’ve met, Jason.”
The boy looked down. “Yeah, I know. Mr. Boling told me. I kinda killed you. Sorry. I thought you were just some newb who was dissing us because of Trav. I mean our family—well, our whole guild order—has been totally dissed because of him and all the posts on that blog. It’s happening a lot. A raiding party from the north traveled all the way from Crystal Island to wipe us out. We made this allegiance and stopped them. But Morina was killed. She was our sister. She’s come back but she lost all her Resources.”
The skinny boy shrugged. “I get pushed around a lot, you know. At school. That’s why I picked an avatar that’s a Thunderer, a warrior. Kind of makes me feel better. Nobody fucks with me there.”
“Jason, one thing that might be helpful: if you could give us the strategies Travis would use to attack people. How he’d stalk them. Weapons. Anything that might help us figure out how to outthink him.”
Kathryn Dance Ebook Boxed Set : Roadside Crosses, Sleeping Doll, Cold Moon (9781451674217) Page 29