Roadside Crosses

to use one. He muttered, “But if I do what you want, you’ll just kill me. And then my family.”
    “No, I won’t. It’s better for me if you’re alive. You kill who I tell you to, drop the gun and run. Go wherever you want. Then I’ll call my friend and tell him to leave your family alone.”
    There was a lot about this that didn’t make sense. But Travis’s mind was numb. He was afraid to say yes, he was afraid to say no.
    Travis thought of his brother. Then his mother. An image of his father smiling even came to mind. Smilingwhen he looked at Sammy, never at Travis. But it was a smile nonetheless and seemed to make Sammy happy. That was the important thing.
    Travis, did you bring me M’s?
    Sammy . . .
    Travis Brigham blinked tears from his eyes and whispered, “Okay. I’ll do it.”

Chapter 42
    EVEN WITHOUT THE benefit of excessive lunch time Chardonnay, Donald Hawken was feeling maudlin.
    But he didn’t care.
    He rose from the couch where he’d been sitting with Lily and embraced James Chilton, who was entering the living room of his vacation house in Hollister, carrying several more bottles of white wine.
    Chilton gripped him back, only mildly embarrassed. Lily chided her husband, “Donald.”
    “Sorry, sorry, sorry.” Hawken laughed. “But I can’t help it. The nightmare’s over. God, what you’ve been through.”
    “What we’ve all been through,” Chilton said.
    The story of the psycho was all over the news. How the Mask Killer wasn’t the boy but was really some crazy man who’d been trying to avenge a posting that Chilton had put on his report several years ago.
    “And he was actually going to shoot you on camera?”
    Chilton lifted an eyebrow.
    “Jesus our Lord,” said Lily, looking pale—and surprising Hawken, since she was a professed agnostic. But Lily, like her husband, was a bit tipsy too.
    “I’m sorry about that boy,” Hawken said. “He was an innocent victim. Maybe the saddest victim of all.”
    “Do you think he’s still alive?” Lily wondered.
    “I doubt it,” Chilton said grimly. “Schaeffer would have to kill him. Leave no traces. I’m heartsick about it.”
    Hawken was pleased he’d rejected the request—well, from that Agent Dance it had almost been an order —to go back to San Diego. No way. He thought back to those dismal days when Sarah had died and James Chilton had sped to his side.
    This is what friends did.
    Breaking the pall that had descended, Lily said, “I’ve got an idea. Let’s plan a picnic for tomorrow. Pat and I can cook.”
    “Love it,” Chilton said. “We know this beautiful park nearby.”
    But Hawken wasn’t through being maudlin. He lifted his glass of Sonoma-Cutrer. “Here’s to friends.”
    “To friends.”
    They sipped. Lily, her pretty face crowned with curly golden hair, asked, “When’re they coming up? Pat and the kids?”
    Chilton glanced at his watch. “She left about fifteen minutes ago. She’ll pick the boys up from camp. Then head up here. Shouldn’t be too long.”
    Hawken was amused. The Chiltons lived close to one of the most beautiful waterfronts in the world. And yet for their vacation house they’d chosen a rustic old place in the hills forty-five minutes inland,hills that were decidedly dusty and brown. Yet the place was quiet and peaceful.
    Y ningunos turistas. A relief after summertime Carmel, filled to the gills with out-of-towners.
    “Okay,” Hawken announced. “I can’t wait any longer.”
    “Can’t wait?” Chilton asked, a perplexed smile on his face.
    “What I told you I was bringing.”
    “Oh, the painting? Really, Don. You don’t need to do that.”
    “It’s not ‘need.’ It’s something I want to do.”
    Hawken went into the guest bedroom where he and Lily were staying and returned with a small canvas, an impressionistic painting of a blue swan on a darker blue background. His late wife, Sarah, had bought it in San Diego or La Jolla. One day, while Jim Chilton was in Southern California to help after her death, Hawken had found the man staring at the painting admiringly.
    Hawken had decided at that moment that someday he’d give the artwork to his friend, in gratitude for all he’d done during those terrible times.
    Now, the three of them gazed at the bird taking off from the water.
    “It’s beautiful,” Chilton said. He propped the painting up on the mantel. “Thank you.”
    Hawken, now a half glass of wine more maudlin yet, was lifting his glass to make a