Blood Suggestive Themes Alcohol Violence Then, with his self-assured typing, Jon Boling took them to Aetheria. It was an odd experience. Avatars—some fantastical creatures, some human—wandered around a clearing in a forest of massive trees. Their names were in balloons above the characters. Most of them were fighting, but some just walked, ran or rode horses or other creatures. Some flew on their own. Dance was surprised to see that everyone moved nimbly and that the facial expressions were true to life. The graphics were astonishing, nearly movie quality. Which made the combat and its vicious, excessive bloodletting all the more harrowing. Dance found herself sitting forward, knee bobbing—a classic indication of stress. She gasped when one warrior beheaded another right in front of them. “There are real people guiding them?” “One or two are NPC—those’re ‘nonplayer characters’ that the game itself creates. But nearly all of the others are avatars of people who could be anywhere. Cape Town, Mexico, New York, Russia. The majority of the players are men, but there’re a lot of women too. And the average age isn’t as young as you’d think. Teenage to late twenties mostly but plenty of older players. They could be boys or girls or middle-aged men, black, white, disabled, athletes, lawyers, dishwashers…. In the synth world, you can be whoever you want to be.” In front of them another warrior easily killed his opponent. Blood spurted in a geyser. Boling grunted. “They’re not all equal, though. Survival depends on who practices the most and who has the most power—power you earn by fighting and killing. It’s a vicious cycle, literally.” Dance tapped the screen and pointed to the back of a woman avatar in the foreground. “That’s you?” “One of my student’s avatars. I’m logging in through her account.” The name above her was “Greenleaf.” “There he is!” Boling said, his shoulder brushing hers as he leaned forward. He was pointing at Travis’s avatar, Stryker, who was about a hundred feet away from Greenleaf. Stryker was a tough, muscular man. Dance couldn’t help but notice that while many other characters had beards or ruddy, leathery skin, Travis’s avatar was unblemished and his skin as smooth as a baby’s. She thought of the boy’s concerns about acne. You can be whoever you want to be… Stryker—a “Thunderer,” she recalled—was clearly the dominant warrior here. People would look his way and turn and leave. Several people engaged him—once two at the same time. He easily killed them both. One time he stunned a huge avatar, a troll or similar beast, with a ray. Then, as it lay shaking on the ground, Travis directed his avatar to plunge a knife into its chest. Dance gasped. Stryker bent down and seemed to reach inside the body. “What’s he doing?” “Looting the corpse.” Boling noted Dance’s furrowed brow and added, “Everyone does it. You have to. The bodies might have something valuable. And if you’ve defeated them, you’ve earned the right.” If these were the values that Travis had learned in the synth world, it was a wonder he hadn’t snapped sooner. She couldn’t help but wonder: And where was the boy now in the real world? At a Starbucks Wi-Fi location, with the hood over his head and sunglasses on, so he wouldn’t be recognized? Ten miles from here? One mile? He wasn’t at the Game Shed. She knew that. After learning that he spent time there, Dance had ordered surveillance on the place. As she watched Travis’s avatar engage and easily kill dozens of creatures—women and men and animals—she found herself instinctively drawing on her skills as a kinesics expert. She knew, of course, that computer software was controlling the boy’s movement and posture. Yet she was already seeing that his avatar moved with more grace and fluidity than most. In combat he didn’t flail away randomly, as some of the characters did. He took his time, he withdrew a bit and then struck when his opponents were disoriented. Several fast blows or stabs later—and the character was dead. He stayed alert, always looking around him. This was a clue, perhaps, to the boy’s strategy of life. Planning the attacks out carefully, learning all he could about his victims, attacking fast. Analyzing the body language of a computer avatar, she reflected. What an odd case this was. “I want to talk to him.” “To Travis? I mean, to Stryker?” “Right. Get closer.” Boling hesitated. “I don’t know the navigation commands very well. But I think I can walk all right.” “Go ahead.” Using the keypad, Boling maneuvered Greenleaf closer to where Stryker was hunched over the body of the creature he’d just killed, looting it. As soon as she was within attack distance Stryker sensed Dance’s avatar’s approach and leapt up, his sword in one hand, an elaborate shield in the other. Stryker’s eyes gazed out of the screen. Eyes dark as the demon Qetzal’s. “How do I send a message?” Boling clicked on a button at the bottom of the screen and a box opened. “Just like any instant message now. Type your message and hit ‘Return.’ Remember, use abbreviations and leetspeak if you can. The easiest thing to do is just substitute the number three for e and four for a.” Dance took a deep breath. Her hands were shaking as she stared at the animated face of the killer. “Stryker, U R g00d.” The words appeared in a balloon over Greenleaf’s head as the avatar approached. “who r u?” Stryker stood back, gripping a sword. “I’m just some lus3r.” Boling told her, “Not bad, but forget grammar and punctuation. No caps, no periods. Question marks are okay.” Dance continued, “saw u fight u r el33t.” Her breath was coming fast; tension rose within her. “Excellent,” Boling whispered. “what is your realm?” “What’s he mean?” Dance asked, feeling a sprinkle of panic. “I think he’s asking for your country or the guild you’re in. There’d be hundreds of them. I don’t know any in this game. Tell him you’re a newbie.” He spelled it. “That’s somebody new to a game, but who wants to learn.” “just newbie, play for fun, thought u could t33ch” There was a pause. “u mean u r sum n00b” “What’s that?” Dance asked. “Newbie’s just a beginner. A n00b is a loser, somebody who’s egotistical and incompetent. It’s an insult. Travis has been called a n00b a lot online. LOL him but say you’re not. Your really want to learn from him.” “lol, but no d00d, i w4nt to learn” “R U hot?” Dance asked Boling, “Is he coming on to me?” “I don’t know. It’s an odd question under the circumstances.” “sorta people tell me” “u board funny” “Shit, he’s catching on that there’s a delay in your keyboarding. He’s suspicious. Change the subject back to him.” “like really w4nt to learn, what can u t33ch me?” A pause. Then: “1 thing” Dance typed, “whats that?” Another hesitation. Then words appeared in the balloon Travis’s avatar. “2 die” And though Dance felt an instinct to slam an arrow key or slide the touchpad to lift an arm and protect herself, there was no time. Travis’s avatar moved in fast. He swung his sword again and again, striking her. In the upper left-hand corner of the screen a box popped up showing two figures, solid white: the headings “Stryker” was above the one on the left, and “Greenleaf” on the right. “No!” she whispered, as Travis slashed away. The white filling the Greenleaf outline began to empty. Boling said, “That’s your life force bleeding out. Fight back. You have a sword. There!” He tapped the screen. “Put the cursor on it and left click with the mouse.” Filled with unreasonable but feverish panic, she began clicking. Stryker easily deflected her avatar’s wild blows. As Greenleaf’s power slipped away on the gauge, the avatar dropped to her knees. Soon the sword fell to the ground. She was on her back, arms and legs splayed. Helpless. Dance felt as vulnerable as she ever had in real life. “You don’t have much power left,” Boling said. “There’s nothing you can do.” The gauge was nearly drained. Stryker stopped hacking at Greenleaf’s body. He moved closer and looked into the computer monitor. “who r u?” came the words popping up in the instant message. “i am greenleaf. Y did U kill me?” “WHO R U?” Boling said, “All caps. He’s shouting. He’s mad.” “pleez?” Dance’s hands were shaking and her chest was constricted. It was as if these weren’t bits of electronic data but real people; she’d plunged wholly into the synth world. Travis then directed Stryker to step forward and drive his sword into Greenleaf’s abdomen. Blood spurted, and the gauge in the upper left-hand corner was replaced with a message: “YOU ARE DEAD.” “Oh,” Dance cried. Her sweaty hands quivered and her breath stuttered in and out, over her dry lips. Travis’s avatar stared at the screen chillingly, then turned and began to run into the forest. Without a pause, he swiped his sword across the neck of an avatar whose back was turned and lopped off the creature’s head. He then vanished. “He didn’t wait to loot the corpse. He’s escaping. He wants to get away fast. He thinks something’s up.” Boling moved closer to Dance—now it was their legs that brushed. “I want to see something.” He began to type. Another box appeared. It said, “Stryker is not online.” Dance felt a painful chill rattling through her, ice along her spine. Sitting back, her shoulder against Jon Boling’s, she was thinking: if Travis had logged off, maybe he’d left the location where he’d been online. And where was he going? Into hiding? Or was he intent on continuing his hunt in the real world? LYING IN BED, the hour closing in on midnight. Two sounds confused: the wind stroking the trees outside her bedroom window and surf on rocks a mile away at Asilomar and along the road to Lovers Point. Beside her, she felt warmth against her leg, and exhaled breath, soft in sleep, tickled her neck. She was unable to join in the bliss of unconsciousness, however. Kathryn Dance was as awake as if it were noon. In her mind a series of thoughts spun past. One would rise to the top for a time, then roll on, like on Wheel of Fortune. The subject the clicker settled on most frequently was Travis Brigham of course. In her years of being a crime reporter and a jury consultant and a law enforcement agent, Dance had come to believe that the tendency toward evil could be found in the genes—like Daniel Pell, the cult leader and killer she’d pursued recently—or could be acquired: J. Doe in Los Angeles, for instance, whose murderous inclinations had come later in life. Dance wondered where Travis fell on the spectrum. He was a troubled, dangerous young man, but he was also someone else, a teenager yearning to be normal—to have clear skin, to have a popular girl like him. Was it inevitable from birth that he’d slip into this life of rage? Or had he begun like any other boy yet been so battered by circumstance—his abusive father, troubled brother, gawky physique, solitary nature, bad complexion—that his anger couldn’t burn away as it did in most of us, like midmorning fog? For a long, thick moment, pity and loathing were balanced within her. Then she saw Travis’s avatar staring her down and lifting his sword. like really w4nt to learn, what can u t33ch me? 2 die… Next to her the warm body shifted slightly, and she wondered if she was giving off minuscule tensions that disturbed sleep. She was trying to remain motionless, but that, as a kinesics expert, she knew was impossible. Asleep or waking, if our brain functioned, our bodies moved. The wheel spun on. Her mother, and the euthanasia case, now paused at the top. Though she’d asked Edie to call when they got back to the inn, she hadn’t. This hurt, but didn’t surprise, Dance. Then the wheel spun again and the J. Doe case in Los Angeles paused at the apogee. What would come of the immunity hearing? Would it be delayed again? And the ultimate outcome? Ernie Seybold was good. But was he good enough? Dance honestly didn’t know. This musing in turn led to thoughts of Michael O’Neil. She understood there were reasons that he hadn’t been able to be here tonight. But his not calling? That was unusual. The Other Case… Dance laughed at the jealousy. She occasionally tried to picture herself and O’Neil together, had he not been married to svelte and exotic Anne. On the one hand, it was too easy. They’d spent days together on cases, and the hours moved by seamlessly. The conversation flowed, the humor. Yet they also disagreed, sometimes to the point of anger. But she believed their passionate disagreements only added to what they had together. Whatever that was. Her thoughts wheeled on, unstoppable. Click, click, click… At least until they stopped at Professor Jonathan Boling. And beside her the soft breathing became a soft rattle. “Okay, that’s it,” Dance said, rolling onto her other side. “Patsy!” The flat-coat retriever stopped snoring as she awoke and lifted her head off the pillow. “On the floor,” Dance commanded. The dog stood, assessed that no food or ball playing figured in the deal and leapt off the bed to join her companion, Dylan, on the shabby rug they used as a futon, leaving Dance once more alone in bed. Jon Boling, she reflected. Then decided perhaps it was better not to spend much time on him. Not just yet. In any case, at that moment, her musings vanished as the mobile phone by the bed, sitting next to her weapon, trilled. Instantly, she flipped the light on, shoved her glasses on her nose and laughed, seeing the Caller ID. “Jon,” she said. “Kathryn,” Boling said. “I’m sorry to call so late.” “It’s okay. I wasn’t asleep. What’s up? Stryker?” “No. But there’s something you have to see. The blog—The Chilton Report. You better go online now.” IN HER SWEATS, the dogs nearby, Dance was sitting in the living room, all the lights off, though moonlight and a shaft of streetlight painted iridescent swatches of blue-white on the pine floor. Her Glock pressed against her spine, the heavy gun tugging down the limp elastic waistband of her sweats. The computer finished its interminable loading of the software. “Okay.” He said, “Look over the latest posting of the blog.” He gave her the URL. Http://www.thechiltonreport.com/html/june27update.html She blinked in surprise. “What…?” Bolling told her, “Travis hacked The Report.” “How?” The professor gave a cold laugh. “He’s a teenager, that’s how.” Dance shivered as she read. Travis had posted a message over the beginning of the June 27 blog. To the left was a crude drawing of the creature Qetzal from DimensionQuest. Around the eerie face, its lips sewn shut and bloody, were cryptic numbers and words. Beside it was a text posting in large, bold letters. It was even more troubling than the picture. Half English, half leetspeak. 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.