Roadside Crosses

address. They disconnected.
    Dance turned to her father. “Dad, I can’t stay. I’m so sorry.”
    He turned his handsome, distraught face toward his daughter. “What?”
    “They found another cross. The boy’s going after somebody else, it looks like. Today. But there’s a witness. I have to interview them.”
    “Of course you do.” Yet he sounded uncertain. He was going through a nightmare at the moment—nearly as bad as her mother’s—and he’d want his daughter, with her expertise and her connections, nearby.
    But she couldn’t get images of Tammy Foster out of her mind, lying in the trunk, the water rising higher.
    Images of Travis Brigham’s eyes too, cold and dark beneath their abundant brows, as he gazed at his father, as if his character in a game, armed with knife or sword, was debating stepping out of the synth world and into the real, to slaughter the man.
    She had to go. And now. “I’m sorry.” She hugged her father.
    “Your mother will understand.”
    Dance ran to her car and started the engine. As she was pulling out of the parking lot she glanced in the rearview mirror and saw her mother emerge from the door to the lockup. Edie stared at her daughter’s departure. The woman’s eyes were still, her face revealing no emotion.
    Dance’s foot slipped to the brake. But then she pressed down once more on the accelerator and hit the grille flashers.
    Your mother will understand. . . .
    No, she won’t, Dance thought. She absolutely won’t.

Chapter 14
    AFTER ALL THESE years in the area Kathryn Dance had never quite grown used to the Peninsula fog. It was like a shape-shifter—a character out of the fantasy books that Wes liked. Sometimes it was wisps that hugged the ground and swept past you like ghosts. Other times it was smoke squatting in depressions of land and highway, obscuring everything.
    Most often it was a thick cotton bedspread floating several hundred feet in the air, mimicking cloud and ominously darkening everything below it.
    This was the breed of fog today.
    The gloom thickened as Dance, listening to Raquy and the Cavemen, a North African group known for their percussion, drove along a quiet road running through state land between Carmel and Pacific Grove. The landscape was mostly woods, untended, filled with pine, scrub oak, eucalyptus and maple, joined by tangles of brush. She drove through the police line, ignoring the reporters and camera crews. Were they here for the crime, or because of her mother? Dance wondered cynically.
    She parked, greeted the deputies nearby and joined Michael O’Neil. They began walking towardthe cordoned-off shoulder, where the second cross had been found.
    “How’s your mother doing?” O’Neil asked.
    “Not good.”
    Dance was so glad he was here. Emotion swelled like a balloon within her, and she couldn’t speak for a moment, as the image of her mother in handcuffs, and the run-in with the social worker about her children, surfaced.
    The senior deputy couldn’t help but give a faint smile. “Saw you on TV.”
    “TV?”
    “Who was the woman, the one who looked like Oprah? You were about to arrest her.”
    Dance sighed. “They got that on camera?”
    “You looked”—he searched for a word—“imposing.”
    “She was taking the kids to Social Services.”
    O’Neil looked shocked. “It was Harper. Tactics. He nearly got his flunky collared, though. Oh, I would’ve pushed the button on that one.” She added, “I’ve got Sheedy on the case.”
    “George? Good. Tough. You need tough.”
    “Oh, and then Overby let Harper into CBI. To go through my files.”
    “No!”
    “I think he was looking to see if I suppressed evidence or tinkered with the files about the Juan Millar case. Overby said he went through your office’s files too.”
    “MCSO?” he asked. Dance could read his anger like a red highway flare. “Did Overby know Harper was making a case against Edie?”
    “I don’t know. At the least he should’ve thought: What the hell is this guy from San Francisco prowling around in our files for? ‘Caseload evaluations.’ Ridiculous.” Her own fury swelled again and, with effort, she finally managed to bank it.
    They approached the spot where the cross was planted, on the shoulder of the road. The memorial was like the earlier one: broken-off branches bound with wire, and a cardboard disk with today’s date on it.
    At the base was another bouquet of red roses.
    She couldn’t help but think: Whose murder