Roadside Crosses

harassment. Or maybe you want the address of somebody who posted a comment critical of the governor. Or the president. Or—how ’bout this—someone who says something favorable about al-Qaeda? You say to me: ‘You gave me the information last time. Why not again?’”
    “There won’t be an again.”
    “You say that but . . .” As if government employees lied with every breath. “Does this boy know you’re after him?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then he’s run off somewhere, wouldn’t you think? He’s not going to show himself by attacking somebody else. Not if the police are looking for him.” His voice was stern.
    Hers was reasonable as she continued slowly, “Still. You know, Mr. Chilton, sometimes life is about compromises.”
    She let this comment linger.
    He cocked an eyebrow, waiting.
    “If you gave us the addresses—just of the locals who wrote the most vicious posts about Travis—we’d really appreciate it. Maybe . . . well, maybe we could do something to help you, if you ever needed a hand.”
    “Like what?”
    Thinking again about Boling’s suggestions, she said, “We’d be happy to issue a statement about your cooperation. Good publicity.”
    Chilton considered this. But then frowned. “No. If I were to help you it’d probably be best not to mention it.”
    She was pleased; he was negotiating. “Okay, I can understand that. But maybe there’s something else we could do.”
    “Really? What?”
    Thinking about another suggestion the professor had made, she said, “Maybe, well, if you need any contacts in the California law enforcement agencies. . . . Sources. High-up ones.”
    He leaned forward, eyes flaring. “So you are trying to bribe me. I thought so. Just had to draw you out a little. Got you, Agent Dance.”
    She sat back as if she’d been slapped.
    Chilton continued, “Appealing to my public spirit is one thing. This . . .” He waved his hand at her. “. . . is distasteful. And corrupt, if you ask me. It’s the kind of maneuvering I expose in my blog every day.”
    Of course, the other thing he might do is consider your request an invasion of journalistic ethics. In which case he’ll slam the door in your face.
    “Tammy Foster was almost killed. There could be others.”
    “I’m very sorry for that. But The Report is too important to jeopardize. And if people think they can’t post anonymously it’ll change the integrity of the entire blog.”
    “I’d like you to reconsider.”
    The blogger’s strident facade faded. “That man I was meeting with when you got here?”
    She nodded.
    “Gregory Ashton.” He said this with some intensity, the way people will when speaking about someone significant to them, but who have no meaning to you. Chilton noted the blank expression. He continued, “He’s starting a new network of blogs and websites, one of the biggest in the world. I’ll be at the flagship level. He’s spending millions to promote it.”
    This was the issue that Boling had explained to her. Ashton must have been the one behind the RSS feed Chilton was referring to in the “We’re Going Global” posting.
    “That expands the scope of The Report exponentially. I can take on problems around the world. AIDS in Africa, human rights violations in Indonesia, atrocities in Kashmir, environmental disasters in Brazil. But if word were to get out that I gave away the Internet address of my posters, that could put the sanctity of The Report at risk.”
    Dance was frustrated, though part of her, as a former journalist, grudgingly understood. Chilton wasn’t resisting out of greed or ego, but from a genuine passion for his readers.
    Though that hardly helped her out.
    “People could die,” she persisted.
    “This question has come up before, Agent Dance. The responsibility of bloggers.” He stiffened slightly. “A few years ago I did an exclusive post about a well-known writer who I found out had plagiarized some passages from another novelist. He claimed it was an accident, and begged me not to run the story. But Iran it anyway. He started drinking again and his life fell apart. Was that my goal? God, no. But either the rules exist or they don’t. Why should he get away with cheating when you and I don’t?
    “I did a blog about a deacon from San Francisco who was head of an antigay movement—and, it turned out, a closet homosexual. I had to expose the hypocrisy.” He looked right into Dance’s eyes. “And the man killed himself. Because of