Roadside Crosses (Kathryn Dance 2)

Dance glanced at Chilton's Nissan Quest. The doors and tailgate were open and Crime Scene had removed the contents: most notable were the last roadside cross and bouquet of red roses--now tinged with brown. Chilton would have been planning to leave them nearby, after he'd killed the Hawkens. Travis's bike also rested near the tailgate, and in a clear evidence bag was the gray hoodie that Chilton had stolen and worn to impersonate the boy and that he'd picked fibers off to leave at the scenes.

Dance asked the paramedic, "And the Hawkens? How're they?"

"Shaken up, as you can imagine, a bit bruised, hitting the deck when we moved in. But they'll be fine. They're on the porch."

"You doing okay?" Dance asked Travis.

"I guess," he answered.

She realized what a foolish question it was. Of course he wasn't okay. He'd been kidnapped by James Chilton and been ordered to murder Donald Hawken and his wife.

Apparently rather than going through with that task he'd chosen to die.

"Your parents will be here soon," she told him.

"Yeah?" The boy seemed cautious at this news.

"They were real worried about you."

He nodded, but she read skepticism in his face.

"Your mother was crying, she was so happy when I told her."

That was true. Dance had no idea what the father's reaction had been.

A deputy brought the boy a soft drink.

"Thank you." He drank the Coke thirstily. For his days in captivity, he wasn't doing too badly. A medic had looked over the raw chafing on his leg; it wouldn't need treatment other than a bandage and antibiotic cream. The injury was

from the shackles, she realized, and a wave of fury coursed through her. She glared at Chilton, who was being transferred from the San Benito to a Monterey County car, but the blogger's eyes remained downcast.

"What's your sport?" the Coke-toting cop asked the boy, trying to make conversation and put Travis at ease.

"Like, I game, mostly."

"That's what I mean," the young crew-cut officer said, taking the skewed response to be a result of the boy's temporary hearing loss from the flash-bangs. More loudly he asked, "What's your fave? Soccer, football, basketball?"

The boy blinked at the young man in the blue outfit. "Yeah, I play all those some."

"Way to go."

The trooper didn't realize that the sports equipment involved only a Wii or game controller and that the playing field was eighteen inches diagonally.

"But start out slow. Bet your muscles've atrophied. Find a trainer."

"Okay."

A rattling old Nissan, the red finish baked matte, pulled up, rocking along the dirt driveway. It parked and the Brighams climbed out. Sonia, tearful, lumbered over the grass and hugged her son hard.

"Mom."

His father too approached. He stopped beside them, unsmiling, looking the boy up and down. "You're thin, pale, you know what I mean? You hurt in' anywhere?"

"He'll be okay," the paramedic said.

"How's Sammy?" Travis asked.

"He's at Gram's," Sonia said. "He's in a state, but all right."