Roadside Crosses

speaking of. “David?”
    “Reinhold. He works in the CS Unit.”
    Oh, the young, eager deputy.
    “He collected the branches left in your backyard. But we still can’t tell if they were left intentionally or it was a coincidence. No other trace, he said.”
    “He got up early. I left the house at seven.”
    Bennington laughed. “Just two months ago he was writing speeding tickets with the Highway Patrol and now I think he’s got his eye on my job.”
    Dance thanked the Crime Scene head and disconnected.
    Stung with frustration, Dance found herself looking at the photo of the mask. It was just plain awful—cruel and unsettling. She picked up her phone and called the hospital. Identified herself. She asked about Kelley Morgan’s condition. It was unchanged, a nurse told her. Still in a coma. She’d probably live, but none of the staff was willing to speculate about whether she’d return to consciousness—or, if so, whether she’d regain a normal life.
    Sighing, Kathryn Dance hung up.
    And got angry.
    She swept the phone up again, found a number in her notebook and, with a heavy finger, punched the keypad hard.
    TJ, nearby, watched the stabbing. He tapped Jon Boling on the arm and whispered, “Uh-oh.”
    James Chilton answered on the third ring.
    “This is Kathryn Dance, the Bureau of Investigation.”
    A brief pause. Chilton would be recalling meeting her . . . and wondering why she was contacting himagain. “Agent Dance. Yes. I heard there was another incident.”
    “That’s right. Why I’m calling, Mr. Chilton. The only way we were able to save the victim—a high school girl—was by tracing her screen name. It took a long time, and a lot of people, to find out who she was and where she lived. We got to her house about a half hour before she died. We saved her but she’s in a coma and might not recover.”
    “I’m so sorry.”
    “And it looks like the attacks are going to continue.” She explained about the stolen bouquets.
    “Twelve of them?” His voice registered dismay.
    “He’s not going to stop until he’s killed everybody who’s attacked him in your blog. I’m going to ask you again, will you please give us the Internet addresses of the people who’ve posted?”
    “No.”
    Goddammit. Dance shivered in rage.
    “Because if I did, it would be a breach of trust. I can’t betray my readers.”
    That again. She muttered, “Listen to me—”
    “Please, Agent Dance, just hear me out. But what I will do . . . write this down. My hosting platform is Central California Internet Services. They’re in San Jose.” He gave her the address and phone number, as well as a personal contact. “I’ll call them right now and tell them I won’t object to their giving you the addresses of everybody who’s posted. If they want a warrant, that’s their business, but I won’t fight it.”
    She paused. She wasn’t sure of the technical implications but she thought he’d just agreed to what she’d asked for, while saving some journalistic face.
    “Well . . . thank you.”
    They hung up and Dance called to Boling, “I think we can get the IP addresses.”
    “What?”
    “Chilton’s had a change of heart.”
    “Sweet,” he said, smiling, and seemed like a boy who’d just been told his father’d gotten tickets to a play-off game.
    Dance gave it a few minutes and called the hosting company. She was skeptical both that Chilton had called and the service itself would give up the information without a court battle. But to her surprise the representative she spoke with said, “Oh, Mr. Chilton just called. I’ve got the IP addresses of the posters. I’ve okayed forwarding them to a dot-gov location.”
    She smiled broadly, and gave the hosting employee her email address.
    “They’re on their way. I’ll go back to the blog every few hours or so and get the addresses of the new posters.”
    “You’re a lifesaver . . . literally.”
    The man said grimly, “This is about that boy who’s getting even with people, right? The Satanist? Is it true they found biological weapons in his locker?”
    Brother, Dance thought. The rumors were spreading faster than the Mission Hills fire a few years ago.
    “We’re not sure what’s happening at this point.” Always noncommittal.
    They disconnected. And a few minutes later her computer dinged with incoming mail.
    “Got it,” Dance said to Boling. He rose and walked behind her, put his hand on her chair back, leaning forward. She