Jeffery Deaver - Roadside Crosses

It was also spooky as hell.

Dance grabbed her flashlight from the glove compartment and climbed out of her Crown Vic.

The damp breeze wafted over her, and she shivered with a jolt of fear.

Relax.

She gave a wry laugh, clicked on the flashlight and started forward, sweeping the Magna-Lite beam over the ground tangled with brush.

A car swept past on the highway, tires sticky on the damp asphalt. It eased around a corner and the sound stopped instantly as if the vehicle had beamed into a different dimension.

As she looked around her, Dance was supposing that the "something" the anonymous caller had reported was the last roadside cross, the one intended to announce James Chilton's death.

There was, however, none to be seen in the immediate vicinity.

What else could the person have meant?

Could they have seen or heard Travis himself?

This would be a perfect place to stash him.

She paused and listened for any calls for help.

Nothing but the breeze through the oaks and pines.

Oaks…Dance pictured one of the improvised roadside crosses. Pictured the one in her backyard too.

Should she call in and order a search? Not just yet. Keep looking.

She wished she had the anonymous caller here. Even the most reluctant witness could be the source of all the information she needed; look at Tammy Foster, whose lack of cooperation hadn't slowed down the investigation at all.

Tammy's computer. It's got the answer. Well, maybe not the answer. But an answer…

But she didn't have the caller; she had her flashlight and a spooky, deserted construction site.

Looking for "something."

Dance now slipped through one of the several gates in the chain link, the metal bent by years of trespassers, and eased through the grounds, moving slowly. The main building had collapsed completely under the flames. And the others-service sheds, garages and complexes of hotel rooms-were boarded up. There were a half dozen open foundation pits. They were marked with orange warning signs, but the fog was thick and reflected back much light into Dance's eyes; she moved carefully for fear of tumbling down into one.

Easing through the compound, one step at a time, pausing, looking for footprints.

What the hell had the caller seen?

Then, Dance heard a noise in the distance, but not that distant. A loud snap. Another.

She froze.

Deer, she guessed. They were plentiful in the area. But other animals lived here too. Last year a mountain lion had killed a tourist jogging not far from here. The animal had sliced the poor woman apart then vanished. Dance unbuttoned her jacket and tapped the butt of her Glock for reassurance.

Another snap then a creak.

Like a hinge of an old door opening.

Dance shivered in fear, reflecting that just because the Roadside Cross Killer was no longer a threat, that didn't mean meth cookers or gangbangers weren't hanging around here.

But heading back never entered her mind. Travis could be here. Keep going.

Another forty feet or so into the compound, Dance was looking for the structures that might house a kidnap victim, looking for buildings with padlocks, looking for footprints.

She thought she heard another sound-almost a moan. Dance came close to calling out the boy's name. But instinct told her not to.

And then she stopped fast.

A human figure was silhouetted in the fog no more than ten yards away. Crouching, she thought.

She gasped, clicked the light out and drew her gun.

Another look. Whoever-whatever-it might have been was gone.

But the image wasn't imagination. She was certain she'd seen somebody, male, she believed from the kinesics.

Now, footsteps were sounding clearly. Branches snapping, leaves rustling. He was flanking her, to her right. Moving, then pausing.

Dance fondled the cell phone in her pocket. But if she made a call, her voice would give away her position. And she had to assume that whoever was here in the dark on a damp, foggy night wasn't present for innocent purposes.

Retrace your steps, she told herself. Back to the car. Now. Thinking of the shotgun in her trunk, a weapon she'd fired once. In training.

Dance turned around and moved quickly, every step making a loud crinkle through the leaves. Every step shouting, Here I am, here I am .

She stopped. The intruder didn't. His steps telegraphed his transit over the leaves and underbrush as he continued on, somewhere in the dark fog to her right.

Then they stopped.

Had he stopped too? Or was he on leafless ground, moving in for an attack?

Just get back to the car, get under cover, rack the 12-gauge and call in backup.

It was fifty, sixty feet back to the chain-link fence. In the dim ambient light-moon diffused by fog-she surveyed the ground. Some places seemed less leaf-strewn than others, but there was no way to proceed quietly. She told herself she couldn't wait any longer.

But still the stalker was silent.

Was he hiding?

Had he left?

Or was he coming up close under cover of the dense foliage?

Near panicking, Dance whirled but saw nothing other than the ghosts of buildings, trees, some large tanks, half buried and rusting.

Dance crouched, wincing from the pain in her joints-from the chase, and the tumble, the other day at Travis's house. Then she moved toward the fence as quickly as she could. Resisting the nearly overwhelming urge to break into a run over ground strewn with construction-site booby traps.

Twenty-five feet to the chain link.

A snap nearby.

She stopped fast, dropped to her knees and lifted her weapon, searching for a target. She was holding her flashlight in her left hand and nearly clicked it on. But instinct once again told her not to. In the fog the beam would half blind her and give the intruder a perfect target.

Not far away a raccoon slipped from a hiding place and moved stiffly away, its kinesic message irritation at the disturbance.

Dance rose, turned back toward the fence and moved quickly over the leaves, looking behind her often. Nobody was in pursuit that she could see. Finally she pushed through the gate and began jogging toward her car, cell phone in her left hand, open, as she scrolled through previously dialed listings.

It was then that a voice from very close behind her echoed through the night. "Don't move," the man said. "I have a gun."

Heart slamming, Dance froze. He'd flanked her completely, gotten through another gate or silently scaled the fence.

She debated: If he was armed and wanted to kill her she'd be dead by now. And, with the mist and dimness, maybe he hadn't seen her weapon in her hand.

"I want you down on the ground. Now."

Dance began to turn.

"No! On the ground!"

But she kept turning until she was facing the intruder and his outstretched arm.

Shit. He was armed, the gun aimed directly at her.

But then she looked at the man's face and blinked. He wore a Monterey County Sheriff's Office uniform. She recognized him. It was the young, blue-eyed deputy who'd helped her out several times earlier. David Reinhold.

"Kathryn?"

"What are you doing here?"

Reinhold shook his head, a faint smile on his face. He didn't answer, just looked around. He lowered his weapon, but didn't slip it back into the holster. "Was it you? In there?" he finally asked, glancing back to the construction site.

She nodded.

Reinhold continued to look around, tense, his kinesics giving off signals that he was still ready for combat.

Then a tinny voice said from her side, "Boss, that you? You calling?"

Reinhold blinked at the sound.

Dance lifted her mobile and said, "TJ, you there?" When she'd heard the intruder come up behind her she'd hit "Dial."