ANCE HURRIED INTO Emergency Admitting at Monterey Bay Hospital.

She found TJ looking troubled in the middle of the lobby. “Boss,” he said, exhaling hard, relieved to see her.

“How is he?”

“He’ll be okay.”

“Did you get Travis?”

“It wasn’t the boy who did it,” TJ said.

At that moment the double doors to the emergency room swung open and James Chilton, a bandage on his cheek, strode out. “He attacked me!” Chilton was pointing at a ruddy-faced, solidly built man in a suit. He sat beside the window. A large county deputy stood over him. Without a greeting, Chilton pointed to him and snapped to Dance, “Arrest him.”

Meanwhile the man leapt to his feet. “Him. I want him in jail!”

The deputy muttered, “Mr. Brubaker, please sit down.” He spoke forcefully enough so that the man hesitated, delivered a glare to Chilton then dropped back into the fiberglass seat.

The officer then joined Dance and told her what had happened. A half hour before, Arnold Brubaker had been on the grounds of his proposed desalination plant with a survey crew. He’d found Chilton taking pictures of animal habitats there. He tried to grab the blogger’s camera and shoved Chilton to the ground. The surveyors called the police.

The injury, Dance assessed, didn’t seem serious.

Still, Chilton seemed possessed. “That man is raping the Peninsula. He’s destroying our natural resources. Our flora and fauna. Not to mention destroying an Ohlone burial ground.”

The Ohlone Indians were the first inhabitants of this part of California.

“We aren’t building anywhere near the tribal land!” Brubaker yelled. “That was a rumor. And completely untrue!”

“But the traffic in and out of the area is going to—”

“And we’re spending millions to relocate animal populations and—”

“Both of you,” Dance snapped. “Quiet.”

Chilton, however, had his momentum going. “He broke my camera too. Just like the Nazis.”

Brubaker replied with a cold smile, “James, I believe you broke the law first by trespassing on private property. Didn’t the Nazis do that too?”

“I have a right to report on the destruction of our resources.”

“And I—”

“Okay,” Dance snapped. “No more!”

They fell silent as she got the details of the various offenses from the 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 relations is my take.”

O’Neil offered, “I almost feel sorry for Chilton.”‘

“Spend ten minutes with him; you’ll feel different.”

The deputy chuckled.

“I was going to call you anyway, Michael. I’ve asked Mom and Dad over tonight for dinner. She needs the support. Love it if you could come.” She added, “You and Anne and the kids.”

A pause. “I’ll try. I’m really swamped on this Container Case. And Anne went up to San Francisco. A gallery’s going to be hanging a show of her recent photos.”

“Really? That’s impressive.” Dance recalled the one-sided conversation yesterday about Anne O’Neil’s impending trip at their attempted breakfast after meeting with Ernie Seybold. Dance had several opinions about the woman, the most unblemished of which had to do with her talent as a photographer.

They disconnected and Dance continued toward her car, unraveling the iPod ear buds. She needed a hit of music. She was scrolling through tunes, trying to decide on Latino or Celtic, when her phone buzzed. Caller ID announced Jonathan Boling.

“Hi,” she said.

“It’s all over the CBI here, Chilton was attacked. What happened? Is he all right?”

She gave him the details. He was relieved nobody had been hurt seriously, but she could tell from his voice quality that he had some news for her. She fell silent and he asked, “Kathryn, you near the office?”

“I wasn’t planning on heading back. I’ve got to pick up the kids and work from home for a while.” She didn’t tell him that she wanted to avoid Hamilton Royce and Overby. “Why?”

“Couple things. I’ve got names of posters who’ve supported Chilton. The good news, I suppose, is that there aren’t a lot. But that’s typical. In blogs more people are contrarians than supporters.”

“Email me the list, and I’ll start calling them from home. What else?”

“We’ll have Travis’s computer cracked in the next hour or so.”

“Really? Oh, that’s great.” Tiffany or Bambi was a pretty good hacker, apparently.

“I’m going to mirror his disk on a separate drive. I thought you’d want to see it.”

“You bet.” Dance had a thought. “You have plans tonight?”

“No, I’ve put my cat burglary plans on hold while I’m helping you guys.”

“Bring the computer over to my house. I’m having my mother and father and a few friends over for dinner.”

“Well, sure.”

She gave him the address and a time.

They disconnected.

As Dance stood beside her car in the hospital parking lot she noticed several aides and nurses leaving for the day. They were staring at her.

Dance knew several of them and smiled. One or two nodded in greeting but the response was tepid, if not chill. Of course, she realized, they’d be thinking: I’m looking at the daughter of a woman who might have committed murder.