Roadside Crosses

disturbed.”
    “Here’s an idea. I’ll call her assistant back, ask her to do something. Run an errand. There are always reports needing to get copied. Or, I know: get her input about workload and hours. It would make sense for me to take her pulse. I’m that kind of boss. She’d never suspect anything’s out of the ordinary.”
    Royce left Overby’s office, walked down corridors whose routes he’d memorized, and paused near Dance’s. He waited in the hallway until he saw that the assistant—an efficient-looking woman named Maryellen—took a call. Then, with a perplexed frown, she stood and headed up the corridor, leaving Hamilton Royce free to plunder.
    WHEN HE GOT to the end of the alley, Jon Boling paused and looked to the right, down a side street, in the direction that Travis had disappeared. From here the ground descended toward Monterey Bay and was filled with smallsingle-family bungalows, beige and tan apartment buildings and abundant groundcover. Though Lighthouse Avenue, behind him, was ripe with traffic the side road was empty. Thick fog had come up and the scenery was gray.
    Well, now that the kid had gotten away, he thought, Kathryn Dance wasn’t likely to be very impressed with his detection work.
    He called 911 and reported that he’d seen Travis Brigham and gave his location. The dispatcher reported that a police car would be at the arcade in five minutes.
    Okay, that was enough of the adolescent behavior, he told himself. His skill was academia, teaching, intellectual analysis.
    The world of ideas, not action.
    He turned around to head back to the arcade to meet the police car. But then a thought occurred to him: that this quest of his maybe wasn’t so out of character, after all. Maybe it was less a case of silly masculine preening than an acknowledgment of a legitimate aspect of his nature: answering questions, unraveling mysteries, solving puzzles. Exactly what Jonathan Boling had always done: understanding society, the human heart and mind.
    One more block. What could it hurt? The police were on their way. Maybe he’d find somebody on the street who’d noticed the boy get into a car or climb through a window of a nearby house.
    The professor turned back and started down the gray, gritty alley toward the water. He wondered when he’d see Kathryn again. Soon, he hoped.
    It was in fact the image of her green eyes that wasprominently in his mind when the boy leapt out from behind the Dumpster three feet away and got Boling in a neck lock. Smelling unwashed clothing and adolescent sweat, he choked as the silver blade of the knife began its leisurely transit to his throat.

Chapter 30
    SPEAKING ON HER phone, Kathryn Dance sped up to the front of James Chilton’s house in Carmel. Parking, she said, “Thanks again,” to the caller and hung up. She parked and walked up to the Monterey County Sheriff’s Office car, in which a deputy sat on guard detail.
    She approached him. “Hey, Miguel.”
    “Agent Dance, how you doing? Everything’s quiet here.”
    “Good. Mr. Chilton’s back, isn’t he?”
    “Yes.”
    “Do me a favor?”
    “You bet.”
    “Get out of the car and just stand here, maybe lean against the door, so people can get a good look at you.”
    “Something going down?”
    “I’m not sure. Just stay there for a bit. Whatever happens, don’t move.”
    He seemed uncertain but climbed out of the car.
    Dance now walked up to the front door and pushed the buzzer. The musician within her detected the slightly flat tone of the final chime.
    Chilton opened the door and blinked to see Dance. “Is everything okay?”
    Then, after a glance over her shoulder, Dance pulled her handcuffs out of their holster.
    Chilton glanced down. “What—?” he gasped.
    “Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”
    “What is this?”
    “Now! Just do it.”
    “This is—”
    She took him by the shoulder and turned him around. He started to speak, but she simply said, “Shh.” And ratcheted on the cuffs. “You’re under arrest for criminal trespass on private property.”
    “What? Whose?”
    “Arnold Brubaker’s land—the site of the desalination plant.”
    “Wait, you mean yesterday?”
    “Right.”
    “You let me go!”
    “You weren’t arrested then. Now, you are.” She recited the Miranda warning.
    A dark sedan sped up the street, turned and ground along the gravel drive up to the house. Dance recognized it as a unit of the Highway Patrol. The two officers in the