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Patrizia looked at herself in a small decorative mirror up on the wall, and ran her fingers through her hair. No, she decided defiantly. She was going to get fixed up, no matter what he said. She turned to tell Ashton this.
She had only a moment to blink, and no time to protect herself, when Ashton's fist swung directly into her cheek and collided hard with bone, breaking skin and knocking her to the floor.
Eyes wide in horror and bewilderment, Jim leapt toward him.
And froze as Ashton thrust a gun into his face.
"No!" Patrizia cried, scrabbling to her feet. "Don't hurt him!"
Ashton tossed Patrizia a roll of duct tape and ordered her to bind her husband's hands behind him.
She hesitated.
"Do it!"
Hands shaking, tears streaming, confused, she did as she'd been told.
"Honey," she whispered as she wrapped his hand behind the chair. "I'm scared."
"Do what he says," her husband told her. Then he glared at Ashton. "What the hell is this?"
Ashton ignored him and dragged Patrizia by the hair to the corner. She squealed, tears falling. "No . . . no. It hurts. No!"
Ashton taped her hands as well.
"Who are you?" Jim whispered.
But Patrizia Chilton could answer that one herself. Greg Ashton was the Roadside Cross Killer.
Ashton noticed Jim looking outside. He muttered, "The deputy? He's dead. There's nobody to help you."
Ashton pointed the video camera at Jim's pale, horrified face, tears welling in his eyes. "You want more hits on your precious Report, Chilton? Well, you're going to get 'em. I'll bet it'll be a record. I don't think we've ever seen a blogger killed on webcam before."
Chapter 35
KATHRYN DANCE WAS back at CBI headquarters. She was disappointed to learn that Jonathan Boling had returned to Santa Cruz. But since he'd come up with the platinum find--Stryker, well, Jason--there wasn't much else for him to do at the moment.
Rey Carraneo called in with some interesting news. He explained that Clint Avery had left his company ten minutes ago. The agent had followed him along the winding roads in the Pastures of Heaven, the name that literary legend John Steinbeck had given to the lush, agriculturally fertile area. There he'd stopped twice, on the shoulder. Both times he'd met with someone. First, two somber men--dressed like cowboys--in a fancy pickup truck. The second time, a white-haired man in a nice suit, behind the wheel of a Cadillac. The meetings seemed suspicious; Avery was clearly nervous. Carraneo had gotten the plates and was running profiles.
Avery was now headed toward Carmel, Carraneo right behind him.
Dance was discouraged. She'd hoped that her meeting with Avery would flush the construction boss--force him to speed to a safe house, where he'd stashed evidence--and perhaps Travis himself.
But apparently not.
Still, the men Avery'd met with might've been hired guns who were behind the killings. The DMV report would give her some clues, if not answers.
TJ stuck his head in her doorway. "Hey, boss, you still interested in Hamilton Royce?"
The man who was probably at that very moment considering how to bring her career down in flames. "Give me a one-minute precis."
"A what?" TJ asked.
"Synopsis. Summary. Digest."
"'Precis' is a word? Learn something new every day. . . . Okay. Royce's a former lawyer. Left practice mysteriously and quickly. He's a tough guy. Works mostly with six or seven different departments in the state. Ombudsman's his official title. Unofficially he's a fixer. You see that movie Michael Clayton?"
"With George Clooney, sure. Twice."
