Roadside Crosses

which had originated in Japan, where kids would sit for hours and hours in a dark, private space, completely sealed off from the real world, to play computer games. This was a logical development in a country known for hikikomori, or “withdrawal,” an increasingly common lifestyle in which young people, boys and men mostly, became recluses, never leaving their rooms for months or years at a time, living exclusively through their computers.
    The noise was disorienting: a cacophony of digitally generated sounds—explosions, gunshots, animal cries, eerie shrieks and laughs—and an ocean of indistinguishable human voices speaking into microphones to fellow gamers somewhere in the world. Responses rattled from speakers. Occasionally cries and expletives would issue hoarsely from the throats of desperate players as they died or realized a tactical mistake.
    The Lighthouse Arcade, typical of thousands around the globe, represented the last outpost of the real world before you plunged into the synth.
    Boling felt a vibration on his hip. He looked down at his mobile. The message from Irv, his grad student, read: Stryker logged on five minutes ago in DQ!!
    As if he’d been slapped, Boling looked around. Was Travis here ? Because of the enclosures, it was impossible to see more than one or two stations at a time.
    At the counter a long-haired clerk sat oblivious to the noise; he was reading a science fiction novel. Boling approached. “I’m looking for a kid, a teenager.”
    The clerk lifted an ironic eyebrow.
    I’m looking for a tree in a forest.
    “Yeah?”
    “He’s playing DimensionQuest. Did you sign somebody in about five minutes ago?”
    “There’s no sign-in. You use with tokens. You can buy ’em here or from a machine.” The clerk was looking Boling over carefully. “You his father?”
    “No. Just want to find him.”
    “I can look over the servers. Find out if anybody’s logged onto DQ now.”
    “You could?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Great.”
    But the kid wasn’t making any moves to check the servers; he was just staring at Boling through a frame of unclean hair.
    Ah. Got it. We’re negotiating. Sweet. Very private-eye-ish, Boling thought. A moment later two twenties vanished into the pocket of the kid’s unwashed jeans.
    “His avatar’s name is Stryker, if that helps,” Boling told him.
    A grunt. “Be back in a minute.” He vanished onto the floor. Boling saw him emerge on the far side of the room and walk toward the back office.
    Five minutes later he returned.
    “Somebody named Stryker, yeah, he’s playing DQ. Just logged on. Station forty-three. It’s over there.”
    “Thanks.”
    “Uh.” The clerk went back to his S-F novel.
    Boling, thinking frantically: What should he do? Have the clerk evacuate the arcade? No, then Travis would catch on. He should just call 911. But he better see if the boy was alone. Would he have his gun with him?
    He had a fantasy of walking past casually, ripping the gun from the boy’s belt and covering him till the police arrived.
    No. Don’t do that. Under any circumstances.
    Palms sweating, Boling slowly walked toward station 43. He took a fast look around the corner. The computer had the Aetherian landscape on the screen, but the chair was empty.
    Nobody was in the aisles, though. Station 44 was empty but at 42 a girl with short green hair was playing a martial arts game.
    Boling walked up to her. “Excuse me.”
    The girl was delivering crippling blows to an opponent. Finally the creature fell over dead and her avatar climbed on top of the body and pulled its head off. “Like, yeah?” She didn’t glance up.
    “The boy who was just here, playing DQ. Where is he?”
    “Like, I don’t know. Jimmy walked past and said something and he left. A minute ago.”
    “Who’s Jimmy?”
    “You know, the clerk.”
    Goddamn! I just paid forty dollars to that shit to tip off Travis. Some cop I am.
    Boling glared at the clerk, who remained conspicuously lost in his novel.
    The professor slammed through the exit door and sprinted outside. His eyes, accustomed to the darkness,stung. He paused in the alleyway, squinting left and right. Then caught a glimpse of a young man, walking quickly away, head down.
    Don’t do anything stupid, he told himself. He pulled his BlackBerry from its holster.
    Ahead of him, the boy broke into a run.
    After exactly one second of debate, Jon Boling did too.

Chapter 29
    HAMILTON ROYCE, THE ombudsman from the attorney general’s