"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.

I'll carry the groceries," Maggie announced as Dance's Pathfinder squealed to a stop in front of their house.

The girl had been feeling independent lately. She grabbed the largest bag. There were four of them; after picking up the children at Martine's, they'd stopped at Safeway for a shopping frenzy. If everyone she'd invited showed up, the dinner party would include nearly a dozen people, among them youngsters with serious appetites.

Listing under the weight of two bags gripped in one hand-an older-brother thing-Wes asked his mother, "When's Grandma coming over?"

"In a little while, I hope… There's a chance she might not come."

"No, she said she's coming."

Dance gave a confused smile. "You talked to her?"

"Yeah, she called me at camp."

"Me too," Maggie offered.

So she'd called to reassure the children she was all right. But Dance's face flushed. Why hadn't she called her?

"Well, it's great she'll be able to make it."

They carried the bags inside.

Dance went into her bedroom, accompanied by Patsy.

She glanced at the gun lockbox. Travis was expanding his targets, and he knew she was one of the officers pursuing him. And she couldn't forget the possible threat-the cross-in her backyard last night. Dance decided to keep the weapon with her. Ever-fastidious about weapons in a household with children, though, she locked the black gun away for a few minutes to take a shower. She stripped off her clothes energetically and stepped into the stream of hot water-trying unsuccessfully to flush away the residue of the day.

She dressed in jeans and an oversize blouse, not tucked in, to obscure the weapon, which sat against the small of her back. Uncomfortable, yet a comfort. Then she hurried into the kitchen.

She fed the dogs and put out a small brushfire between the children, who were sniping over their predinner tasks. Dance stayed patient-she knew they were upset about the incident at the hospital yesterday. Maggie's job was to unpack the groceries, while Wes straightened up for guests. Dance continued to be amazed at how cluttered a house could become, even though only three people lived there.

She thought now, as she often did, about the time when the population was four. And glanced at her wedding picture. Bill Swenson, prematurely gray, lean and with an easy smile, looked out at the camera with his arm around her.

Then she went into the den, booted up her computer and emailed Overby about the assault on Chilton and the confrontation with Brubaker.

She wasn't in the mood to talk to him.

Then Dance retrieved Jon Boling's email with the names of people who'd posted comments favorable to Chilton over the past months. Seventeen.

Could be worse, she supposed.

She spent the next hour finding the numbers of those within a hundred miles and calling to warn them they might be in danger. She weathered their criticism, some of it searing, about the CBI and the police not being able to stop Travis Brigham.

Dance logged on to that day's Chilton Report.

http://www.thechiltonreport.com

She scrolled through all the threads, noting that new posts had appeared in nearly all of them. The latest contributors to the Reverend Fisk and the desalination threads were taking their respective causes seriously-and with intensifying anger. But none of their posts compared to the vicious comments in the "Roadside Crosses" thread, most of them unleashing undiluted fury at each other, as much as at Travis.

Some of them were curiously worded, some seemed to be probing for information, some seemed to be outright threats. She got the feeling that there were clues as to where Travis was hiding-possibly even tidbits of facts that might suggest whom he was going to attack next. Was Travis actually one of the posters, hiding behind a fake identity or the common pseudonym, "Anonymous"? She read the exchanges carefully and decided that perhaps there were clues, but the answer eluded her. Kathryn Dance, comfortable with analyzing the spoken word, could come to no solid conclusions as she read the frustratingly silent shouts and mutters.

Finally she logged off.

An email from Michael O'Neil arrived. He gave her the discouraging news that the immunity hearing in the J. Doe case had been pushed back to Friday. The prosecutor, Ernie Seybold, felt that the judge's willingness to go along with the defense's request for the extension was a bad sign. She grimaced at the news and was disappointed that he hadn't called to give her the news over the phone. Neither had he mentioned anything about whether he and the children would come over tonight.

Dance began to organize the meal. She didn't have much skill in the kitchen, as she was the first to admit. But she knew which stores had the most talented prepared-food departments; the meal would be fine.