One more block. What could it hurt? The police were on their way. Maybe he'd find somebody on the street who'd noticed the boy get into a car or climb through a window of a nearby house.

The professor turned back and started down the gray, gritty alley toward the water. He wondered when he'd see Kathryn again. Soon, he hoped.

It was in fact the image of her green eyes that was prominently in his mind when the boy leapt out from behind the Dumpster three feet away and got Boling in a neck lock. Smelling unwashed clothing and adolescent sweat, he choked as the silver blade of the knife began its leisurely transit to his throat.

Speaking on her phone, Kathryn Dance sped up to the front of James Chilton's house in Carmel. Parking, she said, "Thanks again," to the caller and hung up. She parked and walked up to the Monterey County Sheriff's Office car, in which a deputy sat on guard detail.

She approached him. "Hey, Miguel."

"Agent Dance, how you doing? Everything's quiet here."

"Good. Mr. Chilton's back, isn't he?"

"Yes."

"Do me a favor?"

"You bet."

"Get out of the car and just stand here, maybe lean against the door, so people can get a good look at you."

"Something going down?"

"I'm not sure. Just stay there for a bit. Whatever happens, don't move."

He seemed uncertain but climbed out of the car.

Dance now walked up to the front door and pushed the buzzer. The musician within her detected the slightly flat tone of the final chime.

Chilton opened the door and blinked to see Dance. "Is everything okay?"

Then, after a glance over her shoulder, Dance pulled her handcuffs out of their holster.

Chilton glanced down. "What-?" he gasped.

"Turn around and put your hands behind your back."

"What is this?"

"Now! Just do it."

"This is-"

She took him by the shoulder and turned him around. He started to speak, but she simply said, "Shh." And ratcheted on the cuffs. "You're under arrest for criminal trespass on private property."

"What? Whose?"

"Arnold Brubaker's land-the site of the desalination plant."

"Wait, you mean yesterday?"

"Right."

"You let me go!"

"You weren't arrested then. Now, you are." She recited the Miranda warning.

A dark sedan sped up the street, turned and ground along the gravel drive up to the house. Dance recognized it as a unit of the Highway Patrol. The two officers in the front-bulky men-glanced at Dance curiously and climbed out. They looked over at the county sheriff's office car and Deputy Miguel Herrera, who touched his radio on his hip as if wanting to call somebody to see what this was all about.

Together the new arrivals walked toward Dance and her prisoner. They noted the handcuffs.

In a perplexed voice, Dance said, "Who're you?"

"Well," the older of the troopers said, "CHP. Who are you, ma'am?"

She fished for her wallet in her purse and showed her ID to the troopers. "I'm Kathryn Dance, CBI. What do you want here?"

"We're here to take James Chilton into custody."

"My prisoner?"

"Yours?"

"That's right. We just arrested him." She shot a glance to Herrera.

"Wait a minute here," Chilton barked.

"Quiet," Dance ordered.

The senior trooper said, "We have an arrest warrant for James Chilton. And a warrant to take possession of his computers, files, business records. Anything related to The Chilton Report."

They displayed the paperwork.

"That's ridiculous," Chilton said. "What the fuck is going on here?"

Dance repeated bluntly, "Quiet." Then to the troopers: "What's the charge?"

"Criminal trespass."

"At Arnold Brubaker's property?"

"That's right."

She laughed. "That's what I just arrested him for."

Both of the troopers stared at her then at Chilton, buying time, and then, independently, they nodded. Apparently there was, in their experience, no precedent for anything like this.

"Well," one of the officers contributed, "we have a warrant."

"I understand. But he's already been arrested and the CBI already has jurisdiction over his files and computers. We're collecting them in a few minutes."

"This is fucking bullshit," Chilton blurted.

"Sir, I'd watch your language," the younger, and bigger, of the troopers snapped.

The silence roared.

Then Kathryn Dance squinted a smile into her face. "Wait. Who's the one requested the warrant? Was it Hamilton Royce?"

"That's right. The AG's office in Sacramento."

"Oh, sure." Dance was relaxing. "I'm sorry, this's a misunderstanding. I was the senior officer on the trespass on call but we had an affidavit issue and I had to delay taking him into custody. I mentioned it to Hamilton. He probably thought I was so busy on the Roadside Cross Case-"

"That Mask Killer. That thing. You're running that?"

"Sure am."

"Freaky."

"It is, yep," Dance agreed. Then continued, "Hamilton probably figured I was so busy on that one that he'd take over on the trespass." A disparaging nod of the head. "But frankly, Mr. Chilton pissed me off so much I wanted to finish up the collar myself."

She gave a conspiratorial smile that the troopers joined in briefly. Then she continued, "This's my fault. I should've told him. Let me make a call." She pulled her phone off her belt and dialed. Then cocked her head. "This's Agent Dance," she said and explained about her arrest of James Chilton. Silence for a moment. "I've already collared him… We've got the paperwork back at HQ… Sure." She nodded. "Good," Dance said in a conclusory tone, and disconnected on the woman's voice explaining that the temperature was fifty-six degrees and rain was forecast on the Monterey Peninsula tomorrow.

"It's all set, we'll process him." A smile. "Unless you really want to cool your heels at the Salinas lockup for four hours."

"Nup, that's okay, Agent Dance. You need any help getting him in the car?" The big trooper was looking over James Chilton as if the blogger weighed a hundred pounds more and was capable of breaking through the cuff chain with a flex of his muscles.

"No, that's okay. We'll handle it."

With a nod, the men walked off, climbed in their car and left.

"Listen to me," Chilton growled, his face red. "This is bullshit and you know it."

"Just relax, okay?" Dance turned him around and undid the cuffs.

"What's this all about?" He was rubbing his wrists. "I thought you were arresting me."

"I did. I've decided to let you go, though."

"Are you fucking with me?"

"No, I'm saving you." Dance slipped the cuffs back into her holster. Smiling, she waved to a very perplexed Herrera. He nodded back.

"You were being set up, James."

Not long before, Dance had gotten a call from her assistant. Maryellen had grown suspicious when Charles Overby called once to see if Dance was in the office and then again to ask her to come to his office to discuss her job satisfaction, something he'd never done.

En route to Overby's office, the woman had stalled and remained in the Gals' Wing, hiding in a side corridor. Hamilton Royce slipped into her boss's office. After five minutes or so he'd then stepped outside and made a cell phone call. Maryellen had gotten close enough to overhear part of it-Royce was calling a magistrate in Sacramento, who was apparently a friend, and asking for an arrest warrant against Chilton. Something to do with trespass.

Maryellen didn't understand the implications of what had happened, but she called Dance immediately with the news, then continued to Overby's office.

Dance gave Chilton an abbreviated version of the story, omitting Royce's name.

"Who was behind it?" he fumed.

She knew the blogger would, in a posting, go after whoever was behind his arrest and she couldn't afford the kind of publicity nightmare that would create. "I'm not divulging that. All I'll say is that some people want your blog suspended until we catch Travis."