James Patterson - Postcard killers

He was the one who had let the bastards out in the first place.

"What does the analysis of the website tel us?" Dessie eventual y asked.

Sara Hoglund leaned forward.

"Your first assumption turned out to be correct," she said. "The Rudolphs have set themselves up as masters of their own universe. Their project aims to integrate life, death, and art, to find the ultimate form of expression. The Society of Limitless Art is their own university. As far as we can make out, they've got about thirty-five fol owers around the world. There could be more.

Other art students who share their worldview and admire their ambitions."

Dessie looked down at her hands. "Three other couples have taken the 'exam' that the Rudolphs provide. Hard to believe, isn't it? So many crazies out there."

The pages of the website contained detailed instructions on how to pass the exam, or "graduate," as the Rudolphs cal ed it, in the special project of the Society of Limitless Art. By causing death in a particularly artistic way, humankind could become a creating divinity, and thus immortal.

The procedure of "the Work" was described in detail, from the dialogue to be spoken when the victims were seduced, to how the champagne, eyedrops, and knife were to be used. Al the postcards and Polaroid pictures had been uploaded as JPEG files onto the site. Links and PDFs of the media coverage in each of the countries were also cataloged. It seemed that the press clippings were an important part of the artwork.

"But none of the so-called graduates have actual y passed the exam,"

Jacob said, aware of how hoarse his voice sounded. "The amateurs always messed up the murders somehow. Sometimes there was no symbolism in their choice of postcard. Or they didn't manage to imitate famous works of art with their Polaroids."

No one responded; they just listened to the American now.

"It isn't easy to kil, no matter how motivated or focused you are," Jacob said in a low voice. "The others have al panicked and lost their grip on the situation."

"Athens, Salzburg, and Copenhagen were probably carried out by different members of the group," Sara Hoglund confirmed. "The police in each country are tracing the IP addresses of computers that accessed the site. We'l 163 have located them by this evening."

Mats Duval stood up, holding his electronic gadget. "The perpetrator in Copenhagen has just been identified," he said. "He's a repeat sex offender. His DNA was on file."

"He's a member," Dessie said softly. "His user ID is Batman. "

"How do you know that?" Gabriel a asked.

"He graduated on Sunday," she said. "They had a ceremony on line."

The meeting broke up and the members of the investigating team went back to their respective rooms. Everyone was excited about the new leads but also shocked about the Rudolphs being on the loose.

Jacob and Dessie ended up sitting beside the coffee machine in the unofficial staff room on the fourth floor. On the table in front of them was a map of northern Europe.

"They never go back to where a murder was committed," Jacob said.

"They keep moving on to new places, new countries."

Dessie ran her hand over the map.

"So we can probably discount Denmark, Norway, and Germany," she said.

"They know things are heating up," Jacob said. "They'l want to lie low for a while now. So they'l avoid any transport that involves passenger lists.

They won't pay with credit cards or anything that means they have to provide ID. So where the hel are they going, and how?"

Dessie put both hands over the Stockholm district on the map.

"They're pretty much broke," she said, "and they're on the run."

"So?" Jacob said.

"They'l steal a car," Dessie said. "If you're right, they're heading for Finland."

Jacob looked at the map, his finger landing on the Baltic Sea.

"Why not a boat? It's only a couple of inches to the Baltic states."

"In this country we guard our leisure craft like they were gold reserves.

It's much easier to steal a car. Then they'l have to get up to Haparanda."

She indicated a point on the map where the two countries met. "That's over a thousand kilometers from here."

"So they're behaving like petty criminals again," Jacob said.

"There are no motorways north of Uppsala. The E-four isn't bad, but there are speed cameras the whole way. They'l have to drive up inland, past Ockelbo, Bol nas, Ljusdal, Ange…"

Jacob fol owed her finger as it moved along the narrow, winding roads 164 leading up the oblong country.

"Your home territory," he said. "When wil they get to the border? How long?"

Dessie bit her lip.

"They'l have to stick to the speed limit – they can't risk getting stopped for speeding. And there's a lot of wildlife out on those roads. Elk, deer, maybe reindeer farther north…"

"Are there self-serve gas pumps where they can pay cash to refuel without being seen?"

"They're everywhere," Dessie said.

Jacob ran his hands through his hair.

"We've got to check al cars stolen in Stockholm this morning, and any that are stolen in the north of Sweden over the next few hours."

He put his index finger on the map and screwed his eyes shut. Postcard Kil ers, he thought, where the hel are you?

The stolen mercedes WAS speeding over a bridge with glittering bright blue water on both sides.

Smal, wooded islands strewn with light gray rocks rose on the left and right.

"Do I turn off up here?" Mac asked, leaning in toward the windshield.

"What do you think?"

Sylvia looked down at the road atlas and started to feel sick. She always got carsick when she tried to read on a car trip.

"Left onto the two-seven-two," she said grouchily. "Somewhere on the other side of this lake."

She fixed her eyes on the horizon, the point where the road disappeared in the distance, just as her mother had taught her.

Mac slowed down.

"There's no need to be so miserable about it," he said. "This was your idea, after al. I'm doing the best I can."

She swal owed and glanced at him, leaning close and giving him a quick kiss on the ear.

"Sorry, darling," she cooed. "You're driving bril iantly."

She ran her hand lazily along the dashboard. There was no longer any 165 reason to hide their fingerprints or DNA. On the contrary, it was time to let the world know their message.

Soon they would be able to sit back and enjoy what they had achieved.

Mac braked, signaled, and turned off to the left. They drove past fields with sheep and cattle, past thick groves of trees.

"It's kind of beautiful in its own way, don't you think?" Sylvia said, putting the atlas away. She wasn't planning to look at it again. They were almost there now.

Mac didn't answer.

The landscape opened up around them as they drove through a smal town. To the left were a few houses, to the right a farm. They passed a row of what was once laborers' housing, a school, and an apartment block. Then they were out the other side. So much for civilization on this road trip.

They drove on in silence.

Mac was looking intently through the windshield.

"What do you think about that one?" he said, pointing to a farm on the edge of the forest.

Sylvia leaned forward to check the place out. "Could be. Maybe."

Mac slowed down, then stopped the car. "Yes or no?"

The farmyard seemed quiet and deserted. Al the windows and doors were shut. They could see an old Volvo behind a barn, a sedan that must have been the height of style in the early 1980s.

"This'l do," Sylvia said, taking a quick look behind her.

No cars in sight.

"Quickly, now," she said. "We need to be really careful from here on. No mistakes."