Roadside Crosses: A Kathryn Dance Novel (34 page)

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. Sea-birds 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.

Overby glanced at his watch. “All right. My turn in the barrel.” He wandered off to the press conference.

“Does he know what that expression means?” Boling asked her.

“About the barrel? I don’t know, myself.”

TJ gave a chortling laugh but said nothing. He smiled at Boling, who said, “It’s a joke I won’t repeat. It involves horny sailors out to sea for a long time.”

“Thanks for not sharing.” Dance dropped into her desk chair, sipped the coffee that had materialized and, what the hell, went for half of the doughnut that also had appeared as a gift from the gods.

“Has Travis—well, Stryker—been back online?” she called to Jon Boling.

“Nope. Haven’t heard from Irv. But he’ll be sure to let us know. I don’t think he’s ever slept. He’s got Red Bull in his veins.”

Dance picked up the phone and called Peter Bennington at MCSO forensics for the latest information on the evidence. The gist was that while there was by now plenty of evidence to get a murder
conviction against Travis, there were no leads as to where he might be hiding out, except those traces of soil they’d found earlier—a location different from that where the cross had been left. David Reinhold, that eager young deputy from the sheriff’s office, had taken it on himself to collect samples from around Travis’s house; the dirt didn’t match.

Sandy soil . . .
So
helpful, Dance reflected cynically, in an area that boasted more than fifteen miles of the most beautiful beaches and dunes in the state.

DESPITE HIS ABILITY
to report that the CBI was “doing something techie,” Charles Overby got T-boned at the press conference.

The TV in Dance’s office was on and they were able to watch the crash live.

Dance’s briefing to Overby had been accurate, except for one small detail, albeit one she hadn’t known.

“Agent Overby,” a reporter asked, “what are you doing to protect the community in light of the new cross?”

Deer in the headlights.

“Uh-oh,” TJ whispered.

Shocked, Dance looked from him to Boling. Then back to the screen.

The reporter continued that she’d heard a report a half hour earlier on a radio scanner. Carmel police had found another cross with today’s date, June 28, near China Cove on Highway 1.

Overby sputtered in response, “I was briefed just
before coming here by the agent in charge of the case, and she apparently wasn’t aware of it.”

There were two senior women agents in the Monterey office of the CBI. It would be easy to find out who the “she” in question was.

Oh, you son of a bitch, Charles.

She heard another reporter ask, “Agent Overby, what do you say to the fact that the town, the whole Peninsula’s in a panic? There’ve been reports of homeowners shooting at innocent people who happen to walk into their yards.”

A pause. “Well, that’s not good.”

Oh, brother . . .

Dance shut the TV off. She called the MCSO and learned that, yes, another cross, with today’s date, had been found near China Cove. A bouquet of red roses too. Crime Scene was collecting the evidence and searching the area.

“There were no witnesses, Agent Dance,” the deputy added.

After she hung up, Dance turned to TJ. “What do the Swedes tell us?”

TJ had phoned the proxy service company and left two urgent messages. They had not returned his call yet, despite it being a business day in Stockholm and only past lunchtime.

Five minutes later Overby stormed into the office. “Another cross? Another cross? What the hell happened?”

“I just found out about it myself, Charles.”

“How the hell did
they
hear?”

“The press? Scanners, contacts. The way they always find out what we’re doing.”

Overby rubbed his tanned forehead. Skin flakes drifted. “Well, where are we with it?”

“Michael’s people are running the scene. If there’s evidence they’ll let us know.”

“
If
there’s evidence.”

“He’s a teenager, Charles, not a pro. He’s going to leave
some
clues that’ll lead us to where he’s hiding. Sooner or later.”

“But if he left a cross that means he’s also going to try to kill somebody today.”

“We’re contacting as many people as we can find who might be at risk.”

“And the computer tracing? What’s going on there?”

TJ said, “The company’s not calling us back. We’ve got Legal putting together a foreign warrant request.”

The head of the office grimaced. “That’s just great. Where’s the proxy?”

“Sweden.”

“They’re better than the Bulgarians,” Overby said, “but it’ll be a month before they even get around to responding. Send the request, to cover our asses, but don’t waste time on it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Overby stormed off, fishing his mobile out of his pocket.

Dance snagged her own phone and called Rey Carraneo and Albert Stemple into her office. When they arrived she announced, “I’m tired of being on the defensive here. I want to pick the top five or six potential victims—the ones who’ve posted the most vicious attacks on Travis, and the posters who’re the
most supportive of Chilton. We’re going to get them out of the area and then set up surveillance at their houses or apartments. He’s got a new victim in mind and when he shows up, I want him to get one big goddamn surprise. Let’s get on it.”