Roadside Crosses

back to the chain-link fence.In the dim ambient light—moon diffused by fog—she surveyed the ground. Some places seemed less leaf-strewn than others, but there was no way to proceed quietly. She told herself she couldn’t wait any longer.
    But still the stalker was silent.
    Was he hiding?
    Had he left?
    Or was he coming up close under cover of the dense foliage?
    Near panicking, Dance whirled but saw nothing other than the ghosts of buildings, trees, some large tanks, half buried and rusting.
    Dance crouched, wincing from the pain in her joints—from the chase, and the tumble, the other day at Travis’s house. Then she moved toward the fence as quickly as she could. Resisting the nearly overwhelming urge to break into a run over ground strewn with construction-site booby traps.
    Twenty-five feet to the chain link.
    A snap nearby.
    She stopped fast, dropped to her knees and lifted her weapon, searching for a target. She was holding her flashlight in her left hand and nearly clicked it on. But instinct once again told her not to. In the fog the beam would half blind her and give the intruder a perfect target.
    Not far away a raccoon slipped from a hiding place and moved stiffly away, its kinesic message irritation at the disturbance.
    Dance rose, turned back toward the fence and moved quickly over the leaves, looking behind her often. Nobody was in pursuit that she could see. Finally she pushed through the gate and began joggingtoward her car, cell phone in her left hand, open, as she scrolled through previously dialed listings.
    It was then that a voice from very close behind her echoed through the night. “Don’t move,” the man said. “I have a gun.”
    Heart slamming, Dance froze. He’d flanked her completely, gotten through another gate or silently scaled the fence.
    She debated: If he was armed and wanted to kill her she’d be dead by now. And, with the mist and dimness, maybe he hadn’t seen her weapon in her hand.
    “I want you down on the ground. Now.”
    Dance began to turn.
    “No! On the ground!”
    But she kept turning until she was facing the intruder and his outstretched arm.
    Shit. He was armed, the gun aimed directly at her.
    But then she looked at the man’s face and blinked. He wore a Monterey County Sheriff’s Office uniform. She recognized him. It was the young, blue-eyed deputy who’d helped her out several times earlier. David Reinhold.
    “Kathryn?”
    “What are you doing here?”
    Reinhold shook his head, a faint smile on his face. He didn’t answer, just looked around. He lowered his weapon, but didn’t slip it back into the holster. “Was it you? In there?” he finally asked, glancing back to the construction site.
    She nodded.
    Reinhold continued to look around, tense, his kinesics giving off signals that he was still ready for combat.
    Then a tinny voice said from her side, “Boss, that you? You calling?”
    Reinhold blinked at the sound.
    Dance lifted her mobile and said, “TJ, you there?” When she’d heard the intruder come up behind her she’d hit “Dial.”
    “Yeah, boss. What’s up?”
    “I’m at that construction site off Harrison. I’m here with Deputy Reinhold from the sheriff’s office.”
    “Did you find anything?” the young agent asked.
    Dance felt her legs going weak, her heart pounding, now that the initial fright was over. “Not yet. I’ll call you back.”
    “Got it, boss.”
    They disconnected.
    Reinhold finally holstered his weapon. He inhaled slowly and puffed air out of his smooth cheeks. “That just about scared the you-know-what out of me.”
    Dance asked him, “What are you doing here?”
    He explained that the MCSO had gotten a call an hour ago about “something” having to do with the case near the intersection of Pine Grove and Harrison.
    The call that had spurred Dance to come here.
    Since Reinhold had worked on the case, he explained, he’d volunteered to check it out. He’d been searching the construction site when he’d seen the beam of a flashlight and come closer to investigate. He hadn’t recognized Dance in the fog and was worried that she might be a meth cooker or drug dealer.
    “Did you find anything that suggests Travis is here?”
    “Travis?” he asked slowly. “No. Why, Kathryn?”
    “Just seems that this’d be a pretty good place to hide a kidnap victim.”
    “Well, I searched pretty carefully,” the young deputy told her. “Didn’t see a thing.”
    “Still,” she said. “I want to be