Jeffery Deaver - Roadside Crosses

I will OWN u all! i = win, u = fail!! u r d3ad 3v3ry 1 of u -post3d by TravisDQ

She didn't need a translator for this one.

Below this was another picture. The awkward color rendering showed a teenage girl or woman lying on her back, mouth open in a scream, as a hand plunged a sword into her chest. Blood spurted skyward.

"That picture…it's disgusting, Jon."

After a pause: "Kathryn," he said in a soft voice. "Do you notice anything about it?"

As she studied the awkward drawing, Dance gave a gasp. The victim had brownish hair, pulled back in a ponytail, and was wearing a white blouse and black skirt. On her belt was a darkened area on the hip, which could have been a weapon holster. The outfit was similar to what Dance had been wearing when she'd met Travis yesterday.

"It's me?" she whispered to Boling.

The professor said nothing.

Was the picture old, maybe a fantasy about the death of a girl or woman who'd slighted Travis somehow in the past?

Or had he drawn it today, despite the fact he was on the run from the police?

Dance had a chilling image of the boy, hovering over the paper with pencil and crayon, creating this crude depiction of a synth world death he hoped to make real.

THE WIND IS a persistent aspect of the Monterey Peninsula. Usually bracing, sometimes weak or tentative but never absent. Day and night, it churns the blue-gray ocean, which false to its name is never calm.

One of the windiest places for miles around is China Cove, at the south end of Point Lobos State Park. The chill, steady breath from the ocean numbs the skin of hikers, and picnics are a dicey proposition if paper plates and cups figure as the dishware. Seabirds here labor even to stay in place if they aim into the breeze.

Now, nearly midnight, the wind is fickle, surging and vanishing, and at its strongest, it kicks up towering gray spumes of seawater.

It rustles the scrub oak.

It bends the pine.

It flattens the grasses.

But one thing that's immune to the wind tonight is a small artifact on the seaside shoulder of Highway 1.

It's a cross, about two feet high and made of black branches. In the middle is a torn cardboard disk with tomorrow's date penned in blue. Sitting at the base, weighted down by stones, is a bouquet of red roses. At times petals fly off and skitter across the highway. But the cross itself doesn't flutter or bend. Clearly it was driven deep into the sandy dirt by the roadside with powerful blows, its creator adamant that it remain upright and visible for all to see.

Kathryn Dance, TJ Scanlon and Jon Boling were in her office. The time was 9:00 a.m. and they'd been there for close to two hours.

Chilton had removed Travis's threat and the two pictures from the thread.

But Boling had downloaded them and made copies. u r d3ad.

3v3ry 1 of u.

And the pictures, too.

Jon Boling said, "It might be possible to trace the posting." A grimace. "But only if Chilton cooperates."

"Is there anything in the picture of Qetzal-those numbers and codes and words? Anything that might help?"

Boling said that they were mostly about the game and had probably been made a long time ago. In any case, even the puzzlemaster could find no clues in the weird notations.

The others in the room scrupulously avoided commenting that the second picture, of the stabbing, bore a resemblance to Dance herself.

She was about to phone the blogger, when she got a call. Barking a laugh as she looked at Caller ID, she picked up. "Yes, Mr. Chilton?"

Boling looked at her with an ironic gaze.

"I don't know if you saw…?"

"We did. Your blog got hacked."

"The server had good security. The boy's got to be smart." A pause. Then the blogger continued, "I wanted to let you know, we tried to trace the hack. He's using a proxy site somewhere in Scandinavia. I've called some friends over there, and they're pretty certain they know what the company is. I have the name and their address. Phone number too. It's outside of Stockholm."

"Will they cooperate?"

Chilton said, "Proxy services rarely do unless there's a warrant. That's why people use them, of course."

An international warrant would be a nightmare procedurally and Dance had never known one to be served earlier than two or three weeks after it was issued. Sometimes the foreign authorities ignored them altogether. But it was something. "Give me the information. I'll try."

Chilton did.

"I appreciate your doing this."

"And there's something else."

"What's that?"

"Are you in the blog now?"

"I can be."

"Read what I just posted a few minutes ago."

She logged on.

http://www.thechiltonreport.com/html/june28.html

First was an apology to the readers, surprising Dance with its humility. Then came:

An Open Letter to Travis Brigham This is a personal plea, Travis. Now that your name is public, I hope you won't mind my using it. My job is to report the news, to ask questions, not to get involved in the stories I report on. But I have to get involved now. Please, Travis, there's been enough trouble. Don't make it worse for yourself. It's not too late to put an end to this terrible situation. Think of your family, think of your future. Please…call the police, give yourself up. There are people who want to help you.

Dance said, "That's brilliant, James. Travis might even contact you about surrendering."

"And I've frozen the thread. Nobody else can post to it." He was silent for a moment. "That picture…it was terrible."

Welcome to the real world, Chilton.

She thanked him and they hung up. She scrolled to the end of the "Roadside Crosses" thread and read the most recent-and apparently last-posts. Although some seemed to have been posted from overseas, she once again couldn't help wondering if they contained clues that might help her find Travis or anticipate his next moves. But she could draw no conclusions from the cryptic postings.

Dance logged off and told TJ and Boling about what Chilton had written.

Boling wasn't sure it would have much effect-the boy, in his assessment, was past reasoning with. "But we'll hope."

Dance doled out assignments; TJ retreated to his chair at the coffee table to contact the Scandinavian proxy, and Boling to his corner to check out the names of possible victims from a new batch of Internet addresses-including those who'd posted to threads other than "Roadside Crosses." He'd identified thirteen more.

Charles Overby, in a politician's blue suit and white shirt, stepped into Dance's office. His greeting: "Kathryn…say, Kathryn, what's this about the kid posting threats?"

"Right, Charles. We're trying to find out where he hacked in from."

"Six reporters have already called me. And a couple of them got my home phone number. I've put them off but I can't wait anymore. I'm holding a press conference in twenty minutes. What can I tell them?"

"That the investigation is continuing. We're getting some manpower help from San Benito for the search. There've been sightings but nothing's panned out."

"Hamilton called me too. He's pretty upset."

Sacramento's Hamilton Royce, of the too-blue suit, the quick eyes and the ruddy complexion.

Agent in Charge Overby had had a rather eventful morning, it seemed.

"Anything more?"

"Chilton's stopped the posts on the thread and asked Travis to surrender."

"Anything tech, I mean?"

"Well, he's helping us trace the boy's uploads."

"Good. So we're doing something. "

He meant: something the viewers of prime-time TV would appreciate. As opposed to the sweaty, unstylish police work they'd been engaged in the last forty-eight hours. Dance caught Boling's eye, which said he too was taken aback by the comment. They looked away from each other immediately before a shared look of shock bloomed.