Roadside Crosses

you oughta know. Kelley was conscious for a minute or two when we got her out. She told me that Travis has a gun.”
    “Gun? He’s armed?” Dance and O’Neil shared a troubled gaze.
    “That’s what she said. I lost her after that. Didn’t say anything else.”
    Oh, no. An unstable adolescent with a firearm. Nothing was worse, in Dance’s opinion.
    O’Neil called in the information about the weapon to MCSO, who in turn would relay it to all the officers involved in the search for Travis.
    “What was the gas?” Dance asked the tech as they walked to another ambulance.
    “We aren’t sure. It was definitely toxic.”
    The Crime Scene Unit was searching carefully for evidence while a team canvassed the neighborhood for witnesses. Everyone on the block was concerned, everyone was sympathetic. But they were also terrified; no accounts were forthcoming.
    But perhaps there simply were no witnesses. Bike tread marks in the canyon behind the house suggested how the boy might have snuck up unnoticed to attack Kelley Morgan.
    One Crime Scene officer arrived, carrying what turned out to be an eerie mask in a clear evidence bag.
    “What the hell’s that?” O’Neil asked.
    “It was tied to a tree outside her bedroom window, pointing in.”
    It was hand-made from papier-mâché, painted white and gray. Bony spikes, like horns, extended from the skull. The eyes were huge and black. The narrow lips were sewn shut, bloody.
    “To freak her out, the poor thing. Imagine looking out your window and seeing that.” Dance actually shivered.
    As O’Neil took a call, Dance phoned Boling. “Jon.”
    “How is she?” the professor asked eagerly.
    “In a coma. We don’t know how she’ll be. But at least we saved her life . . . you saved her life. Thank you.”
    “It was Rey too. And my students.”
    “Still, I mean it. We can’t thank you enough.”
    “Any leads to Travis?”
    “Some.” She declined to tell him about the eerie mask. Her phone buzzed, call waiting. “I’ve got to go. Keep looking for names, Jon.”
    “I’m on the case,” he said.
    Smiling, she rang off the line with Boling and answered, “TJ.”
    “How’s the girl doing?”
    “We don’t know. Not good. What’d you find?”
    “No luck, boss. About eighteen vans, trucks, SUVs or cars registered to the state were in the area this morning. But the ones I’ve been able to track down, they weren’t near where the cross was left. And Travis’s phone? The cell provider says he’s taken out the battery. Or destroyed it. They can’t trace it.”
    “Thanks. I’ve got a couple more jobs. There’s a mask the perp left here.”
    “Mask? Ski mask?”
    “No. It’s ritual, looks like. I’m going to have Crime Scene upload a picture of it before they take it to Salinas. See if you can source it. And get the word out to everybody: He’s armed.”
    “Oh, man, boss. Keeps gettin’ better and better.”
    “I want to know if there’ve been any reports of stolen weapons in the county. And find out if the father or any relatives have registered firearms. Check the database. Maybe we can ID the weapon.”
    “Sure . . . Oh, wanta say: Heard about your mother.” The young man’s voice had grown even more sober. “Anything I can do?”
    “Thanks, TJ. Just find out about the mask and the gun.”
    After they hung up she examined the mask, thinking: Could the rumors have been true? Was Travis into some type of ritualistic practice? Here she’d been skeptical of the posters on the blog, but maybe she’d been making a mistake by not paying attention to them.
    TJ called back within minutes. There’d been nostolen guns reported in the past two weeks. He’d also looked through the state’s firearms database. California liberally allows the purchase of pistols, but all sales must be through a licensed dealer and recorded. Robert Brigham, Travis’s father, owned a Colt revolver, .38 caliber.
    After she disconnected, Dance noticed O’Neil, his face still, looking into the distance.
    She walked up to him. “Michael, what is it?”
    “Got to get back to the office. Something urgent on another case.”
    “The Homeland Security thing?” she asked, referring to the Indonesian container case.
    He nodded. “I’ve got to get in right away. I’ll call you as soon as I know more.” His face was grave.
    “Okay. Good luck.”
    He grimaced, then turned quickly and walked to his car.
    Dance felt concern—and emptiness—watching him go. What was so