Roadside Crosses

had even asked the question. “You like Mr. Boling?” she ventured.
    “No . . . I mean, he’s okay.”
    Maggie contradicted, “You said you liked him! You said he was neat. As neat as Michael.”
    “I did not.”
    “Yes, you did!”
    “Maggie, you are so wrong!”
    “All right,” Dance commanded. But her tone was amused. In fact, there was something about the sibling bickering that she found comforting, a bit of normalcy in this turbulent time.
    They arrived at the inn, and Dance was relieved to see that the protesters still had not found the location where her parents were hiding out. She walked Wes and Maggie to the front door. Her father greeted her. She hugged him hard and looked inside. Her mother was on the phone, focusing on what was apparently a serious conversation.
    Dance wondered if she was talking to her sister, Betsey.
    “Any word from Sheedy, Dad?”
    “Nothing more, no. The arraignment’s tomorrow afternoon.” He brushed absently at his thick hair. “I heard you got the fellow, that killer. And the boy was innocent?”
    “We’re looking for him right now.” Her voice lowered so the children couldn’t hear. “Frankly, the odds are he’s dead, but I’m hoping for the best.” She hugged the man. “I’ve got to get back to the search now.”
    “Good luck, honey.”
    As she turned to leave she waved once more to her mother. Edie reciprocated with a distant smile and nod, then, still on the phone, gestured her grandchildren to her and gave them big hugs.
    TEN MINUTES LATER Dance walked into her office, where a message awaited her.
    A curt note from Charles Overby:
    Could you send me the report on disposition of the Chilton blog case. All the details, sufficient for a meaningful announcement to the press. Will need within the hour. Thank you.
    And you’re welcome for a case solved, a perp dead and no more victims.
    Overby was pissy, she supposed, because she’d refused to kowtow to Hamilton Royce, the fixer.
    Who was about as far from George Clooney as one could be.
    Meaningful announcement . . .
    Dance composed a lengthy memo, giving the details of Greg Schaeffer’s plan, how they’d learned of his identity and his death. She included information about the murder of Miguel Herrera, the deputywith the MCSO guarding the Chilton house, and the update on the all-out search for Travis.
    She sent the memo off via email, hitting the mouse harder than usual.
    TJ stuck his head in the door of her office. “You hear, boss?”
    “About what in particular?”
    “Kelley Morgan’s regained consciousness. She’ll live.”
    “Oh, that’s so good to hear.”
    “Be a week or so in therapy, the deputy over there said. That stuff screwed up her lungs pretty bad, but she’ll be okay, eventually. Looks like there won’t be any brain damage.”
    “And what’d she say about ID’ing Travis?”
    “He got her from behind, half strangled her. He whispered something about why’d she posted things about him? And then she passed out, woke up in the basement. Assumed it was Travis.”
    “So Schaeffer didn’t want her to die. He set it up to make her think it was Travis but never let her see him.”
    “Makes sense, boss.”
    “And Crime Scene—at Schaeffer’s and Chilton’s? Any leads to where the boy might be?”
    “Nothing yet. And no witnesses around the Cyprus Grove.”
    She sighed. “Keep at it.”
    The time was now after 6:00 p.m. She realized she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She rose and made for the lunchroom. She needed coffee and wanted something indulgent: homemade cookies or doughnuts. Maryellen’s well in the Gals’ Wing had run dry. Atthe least she could enter a negotiation with the temperamental vending machine: a rumpled dollar in exchange for a packet of toasted peanut butter crackers or Oreos.
    As she stepped into the cafeteria she blinked. Ah, luck.
    On a paper plate full of crumbs sat two oatmeal raisin cookies.
    More of a miracle, the coffee was relatively fresh.
    She poured a cup, added 2 percent milk and snagged a cookie. Exhausted, she plunked herself down at a table. She stretched and fished her iPod out of her pocket, mounting the ear buds and scrolling through the screen to find solace in more of Badi Assad’s arresting Brazilian guitar.
    She hit “Play,” took a bite of cookie and was reaching for the coffee when a shadow hovered.
    Hamilton Royce was looking down at her. His temporary ID was pinned to his shirt. The big man’s arms hung at his