Roadside Crosses

deputy. Finally she approached Chilton. “You trespassed on private property. That’s a crime.”
    “I—”
    “Shhh. And you, Mr. Brubaker, assaulted Mr. Chilton, which is illegal unless you’re in imminent danger of physical harm from a trespasser. Your remedy was to call the police.”
    Brubaker fumed, but he nodded. He seemed upset that all he’d done was bang Chilton’s cheek. The bandage was quite small.
    “The situation is that you’re guilty of minor offenses. And if you want to complain I’ll make arrests. But it’ll be both of you. One for criminal trespass and one for assault and battery. Well?”
    Red-faced, Brubaker began to whine, “But he—”
    “Your answers?” Dance asked with an ominous calm that made him shut up immediately.
    Chilton nodded, with a grimace. “All right.”
    Finally, with frustration evident in his face, Brubaker muttered to Dance, “Okay. Fine. But it’s not fair! Seven days a week for the past year, working to help eliminate drought. That’s been my life. And he sits in that office of his and tears me down, without even looking at the facts. People see what he says in that blog and think it’s true. And how can I compete with that? Write a blog of my own? Who has time?” Brubaker delivered a dramatic sigh and headed out the main door.
    After he’d gone, Chilton said to Dance, “He’s not building the plant out of the goodness of his heart. There’s money to be made and that’s his only concern. And I have researched the story.”
    His voice fell silent as she turned to him and he noticed her somber expression. “James, you might not have heard the news. Lyndon Strickland was just murdered by Travis Brigham.”
    Chilton remained still for a moment. “Lyndon Strickland, the lawyer? Are you sure?”
    “I’m afraid so.”
    The blogger’s eyes were sweeping the floor of the emergency room, green-and-white tile, mopped clean but scuffed by years of anxious heels and soles. “But Lyndon posted in the desalination thread, not ‘Roadside Crosses.’ No, Travis wouldn’t have any complaint with him. It’s somebody else. Lyndon’d made a lot of people upset. He was a plaintiff’s lawyer and was always taking on controversial causes.”
    “The evidence doesn’t leave any doubt. It was Travis.”
    “But why?”
    “We think because his post supported you. Doesn’t matter that it was a different blog thread. We think Travis is expanding his pool of targets.”
    Chilton greeted this with grim silence, then asked, “Just because he posted something agreeing with me?”
    She nodded. “And that leads me to something else I’ve been worried about. That Travis might be after you.”
    “But what argument does he have with me? I haven’t said a word about him.”
    She continued, “He’s targeted somebody who’s supporting you. And the extension of that is that he’s angry with you too.”
    “You really think so?”
    “I think we can’t afford to dismiss it.”
    “But my family’s—”
    “I’ve ordered a car stationed outside your house. A deputy from the sheriff’s office.”
    “Thank you . . . thank you. I’ll tell Pat and the boys to be on the lookout for anything odd.”
    “You’re all right?” She nodded at the bandage.
    “It’s nothing.”
    “You need a ride home?”
    “Pat’s coming to pick me up.”
    Dance started outside. “Oh, and for God’s sake, leave Brubaker alone.”
    Chilton’s eyes narrowed. “But do you know the effects that plant is going to have . . .” He fell silent and held up two hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. I’ll stay off his property.”
    “Thank you.”
    Dance walked outside and turned her phone back on. It rang thirty seconds later. Michael O’Neil. She was comforted to see his number pop up.
    “Hey.”
    “I just heard a report. Chilton. He was attacked?”
    “He’s fine.” She explained what had happened.
    “Trespassing. Serves him right. I called the office. They’re getting the crime scene report back from the Strickland shooting. I pushed ’em to get it done fast. But nothing really helpful jumps out.”
    “Thanks.” Dance then lowered her voice—amusing herself because she did so—and told O’Neil about the curious encounter with Hamilton Royce.
    “Great. Too many cooks screwing up the broth.”
    “I’d like to put them in the broth,” Dance muttered. “And turn up the heat.”
    “And this Royce wants to shut down the blog?”
    “Yep. Worried about the public