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Shit and fan . . .
"Charles."
"Kathryn, I think we have a bit of a problem. Hamilton Royce is here with me on speaker."
She was tempted to hold the phone away from her ear.
"Agent Dance, what's this about Chilton getting arrested by you? And the CHP not being able to serve their warrant?"
"I didn't have any options."
"No options? What do you mean?"
Struggling to keep her voice calm, she said, "I've decided I don't want to shut the blog down. We know Travis reads it. Chilton's asked him to come in. The boy may see that and try to contact the blog. Maybe negotiate a surrender."
"Well, Kathryn." Overby sounded desperate. "On the whole, Sacramento's thinking it's still better to close down the thing. Don't you agree?"
"Not really, Charles. Now, Hamilton, you went through my files, didn't you?"
A land mine of a pause. "I didn't review anything that wasn't public knowledge."
"Doesn't matter. It was a breach of professional responsibility. It might even be a crime."
"Kathryn, really," Overby protested.
"Agent Dance." Royce was sounding calm now, ignoring Overby as efficiently as she was. She recalled a common observation during her interrogations: A man in control is a dangerous man. "People are dying, and Chilton doesn't care. And, yes, it's making us all look bad, from you to Charles to the CBI to Sacramento. All of us. And I don't mind admitting it."
Dance had no interest in the substance of his argument. "Hamilton, you try something like this again, with or without a warrant, and the matter'll end up with the attorney general and the governor. And the press."
Overby was saying, "Hamilton, what she means is--"
"I think he's pretty clear on what I mean, Charles."
Her phone then beeped with a text message from Michael O'Neil.
"I've got to take this." She disconnected the call, cutting off both her boss and Royce.
She lifted her phone and read the stark words on the screen.
K--
Travis spotted in New Monterey. Police lost him. But have report of another victim. He's dead. In Carmel, near end of Cypress Hills Road, west. I'm en route. Meet you there?
--M
She texted, Yes. And ran for the car.
FLICKING ON THE flashing lights, which she tended to forget the car even had--investigators like her rarely had to play Hot Pursuit--Dance sped into the afternoon gloom.
Another victim . . .
This attack would have happened not long after they'd foiled the attempt on Donald Hawken and his wife. She'd been right. The boy, probably frustrated that he hadn't been successful, had gone on immediately to find another victim.
She found the turnoff, braked hard and eased the long car down the winding country road. The vegetation was lush but the overcast leached the color from the plants and gave Dance the impression that she was in some otherworldly place.
Like Aetheria, the land in DimensionQuest.
She pictured the image of Stryker in front of her, holding his sword comfortably.
