Roadside Crosses (Kathryn Dance 2)

O'Neil's and Dance's eyes met. She said, "I'm not going on that assumption. Ultimately, sure, Schaeffer'd have to kill the boy. But he might not have done it yet. He might want to make it look like Travis killed himself after he'd finished with Chilton. Make the case tidier. That means he could still be alive."

The senior deputy took a phone call. He stepped away, eyes straying to the MCSO car where Herrera had been so ruthlessly killed. He disconnected after a moment. "Got to head off. Have to interview a witness."

"You? Interviewing?" she chided. Michael O'Neil's technique at interviewing involved gazing unsmilingly at the subject and asking him over and over again to tell O'Neil what he knew. It could be effective, but it wasn't efficient. And O'Neil didn't really enjoy it.

He consulted his watch. "Any chance you could do me a favor?"

"Name it."

"Anne's flight from San Francisco was delayed. I can't miss this interview. Can you pick up the kids at day care?"

"Sure. I'm going to get Wes and Maggie after camp anyway."

"Meet me at Fisherman's Wharf at five?"

"Sure."

O'Neil headed off, with yet another dark glance at Herrera's car.

Chilton gripped his wife's hand. Dance recognized postures that bespoke a graze with mortality. She thought back to the arrogant, self-righteous crusader Chilton had been when she first met him. Very different now. She recalled that something about him seemed to have softened earlier--when he'd learned that his friend Don Hawken and his wife had nearly been killed. Now, there'd been another shift, away from the stony visage of a missionary.

The man gave a bitter smile. "Oh, did he sucker me in. . . . He played right to my fucking ego."

"Jim--"

"No, honey. He did. You know, this's all my fault. Schaeffer picked Travis. He read through the blog, found somebody who'd be a good candidate to be a fall guy and set up a seventeen-year-old boy as my killer. If I hadn't started the 'Roadside Crosses' thread and mentioned the accident, Schaeffer wouldn't have any incentive to go after him."

He was right. But Kathryn Dance tended to avoid the what-if game. The playing field was far too soupy. "He would've picked somebody else," she pointed out. "He was determined to get revenge against you."

But Chilton didn't seem to hear. "I should just shut the fucking blog down altogether."

Dance saw resolve in his eyes, frustration, anger. Fear, too, she believed. Speaking to both of them, he said firmly, "I'm going to."

"To what?" his wife asked.

"Shut it down. The Report's finished. I'm not destroying anybody else's life."

"Jim," Patrizia said softly. She brushed some dirt off her sleeve. "When our son had pneumonia, you sat beside his bed for two days and didn't get a bit of sleep. When Don's wife died, you walked right out of that meeting at Microsoft headquarters to be there for him--you gave up a hundred-thousand-dollar contract. When my dad was dying, you were with him more than the hospice people. You do good things, Jim. That's what you're about. And your blog does good things too."

"I--"

"Shhh. Let me finish. Donald Hawken needed you and you were there. Our children needed you and you were there. Well, the world needs you too, honey. You can't turn your back on that."

"Patty, people died."

"Just promise me you won't make any decisions too fast. This has been a terrible couple of days. Nobody's thinking clearly."

A lengthy pause. "I'll see. I'll see." Then he hugged his wife. "But one thing I do know is that I can go on hiatus for a few days. And we're going to get away from here." Chilton said to his wife, "Let's go up to Hollister tomorrow. We'll spend a long weekend with Donald and Lily. You still haven't met her. We'll bring the boys, cook out . . . do some hiking."

Patrizia's face blossomed into a smile. She rested her head against his shoulders. "I'd like that."

He'd turned his attention to Dance. "There's something I've been thinking about."

She cocked an eyebrow.

"A lot of people would've thrown me to the wolves. And I probably deserved to be thrown. But you didn't. You didn't like me, you didn't approve, but you stood up for me. That's intellectual honesty. You don't see that much. Thank you."

Dance gave a faint, embarrassed laugh, acknowledging the compliment--even as she thought of the times when she had wanted to throw him to the wolves.