Crash Alive (The Haylie Black Series Book 1)

by Christopher Kerns

  “I’m not working on anything. I’m just clearing my head; I’m going to try attacking the problem again in a few minutes.”

  “So,” Walter said, trying to get a view of her laptop’s screen, “what are you typing?”

  “I’m finishing up a school report on people that won’t mind their own goddamned business,” Haylie said with a petulant smirk. “Almost done with it. I think I’m going to get an ‘A.’”

  A vibration in her pocket shook her as she reached down to retrieve her phone. She checked the screen to see a ‘what’s going on?’ text from Vector.

  “Listen, Haylie,” Benjamin said as he shifted in his seat. “There’s something I … we … have been wanting to tell you.”

  This should be good.

  “I’m not great at this type of stuff, so sorry if it comes off as strange,” Benjamin continued. “But we just wanted to apologize for leaving you out in the Grove on your own. You did some pretty amazing stuff back there—things I’m not sure either of us could have done.”

  Benjamin looked around the rear cabin of the car in every direction but hers, avoiding even the hint of eye contact.

  “That last step … getting in that lodge, grabbing the QR code. I know it wasn’t easy. This thing is starting to get pretty real,” Benjamin said. “What I’m trying to say is that I’m impressed; I think you’re very good at what you do. I just wanted to let you know that.”

  Haylie stared back, surprised and relieved. She hadn’t expected an apology, at least not this soon.

  “It’s fine,” she said. “And thank you. We’ll solve this thing if we work together. Your resources and my….”

  “Big brain?” Walter said, smiling. “Benjamin and I talked and agreed on one thing: we won’t be waving to you from the sidelines anymore.”

  Waving?

  “We’re in it together from this point on,” Walter continued, proud of himself.

  One of Walter’s words pinged in her head. Waving. Waving. Waving. Haylie nodded and turned back to her screen. She pieced together the connection after a few seconds.

  Waving—that’s it. Haylie searched her Applications folder, trying to remember the name of the program she was after.

  “Of course,” she whispered. “I’m so stupid. Stupid. Stupid. What is it called … what is it called?” Her eyes darted around the screen as she stammered. “Sound files are made of patterns … waves. All sound can be represented as mathematical values. It’s called the sound spectrum.”

  “I don’t get it,” Benjamin said, checking with his brother. Walter shook his head back.

  Haylie kept searching. “There’s a type of program called a spectrogram … it visualizes the sound spectrum from any audio file, drawing pictures from the patterns in any track. You end up with a visual look at what makes up the sound. But some spectrogram programs let you start with a picture, any picture you want. A cat or a piano….”

  “Or a message?” Walter asked.

  “Or a message,” she said. “The spectrogram carves the message in the sound, and if there’s enough going on in the music, the additional noise from the hidden image won’t be noticed. A few musicians have played around with it by mixing in pictures of screaming faces or whatever into the background of their tracks. I downloaded a spectrogram to play around with this stuff last year, I just can’t remember what it was called.” She scrolled down and down until she found the icon she was looking for.

  NanoSteno. That’s the one.

  As she opened the application and loaded the audio file from the Raven page, Haylie made a mental note of its filename: ‘1907.MP3.’ She toggled a few settings to display both the waveform and spectrogram views during playback, and hit the play button. The brothers slid over to her side, now half sitting and half standing in the cramped back seat, hovering above the screen to see the results.

  A spectrogram is a thing of beauty when at work, cranking out a flowing stream of multi-colored data. The output resembles a head-on collision between a Doppler radar and the smoothed, sweeping flow of a sand painting. Haylie and the Sterling brothers watched as ripples of yellow, green, and blue wavelength layers squashed on top of each other, like a cutaway view of a limestone cliff. As the Mozart piece exclaimed a violent chorus around the thirteen second mark, the pattern turned a sharp yellow, the progress bar sweeping slowly across the spectrum landscape, left to right.

  “It looks like the sonar readout from our yacht,” Walter said, watching with curiosity. “But I don’t see any pictures in here.”

  “Not yet. It may be towards the end of the track,” Haylie replied, her eyes scanning right to left for anything man-made as the landscape scrolled.

  “Or it may not be in here at all,” Benjamin added.

  As ‘The Marriage of Figaro’ played on, the spectrogram followed; mapping bursts of energy and slower, quieter moments into a jagged electronic painting, rising and falling in peaks and valleys. The violins and cellos filled the car’s cabin with its lively staccato as the three continued to search for a pattern. As they reached the final thirty seconds of the track, Haylie’s pulse began to rise.

  Where is it? It has to be in here.

  Suddenly, the right side of the screen scrolled to reveal a stark pattern of blurred, white edges etched into the multi-colored waves.

  “There it is!” Walter yelled over the music, building to its finish. “We found it!” All three leaned in closer to try and make out the shapes.

  “O, D, F, M.” Walter spelled out the first line of letters, stacked on top of each other. “What does that mean?”

  “It’s four lines of text; those are just the first letters of each line,” Haylie said. “Let it keep playing for a few more seconds.”

  As the spectrogram scrolled on, more and more letters of the message appeared. The track came to a full stop and the NanoSteno application halted with it, displaying the final few bars of the spectrum now frozen on the screen.

  our secrets are our power, but

  don’t Panic.

  find Brother Libra’s last

  meal, we’ll see you there.

  Walter shot a blank expression over to Haylie. “What … what the hell does that mean?”

  “I don’t know,” Haylie replied. “Let’s find out.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Titanhurst Estate - London

  March 9th, 9:23AM

  “It’s so nice to put a face to the name,” Caesar said, relieved to have another soul to talk to.

  “Yes, I feel the same way.” Martin crossed his right leg over his left. “I hope the accommodations have been comfortable.”

  “Are you kidding?” Caesar said. “From what I can tell, this place is ridiculously cool. I’ve never seen anything like it, and I’ve seen quite a lot.”

  Caesar’s eyes flicked around the apartment. Without much else to keep him occupied over the past few days, he had learned every detail of every corner in the room—dark chocolate floors leading to the wooden plank staircase, curving up to a small loft space above. The apartment was a modern oasis, with the browns and whites of the interior offset by lush, green trees visible through the window. Bright white couches and lamps, tastefully arranged. All clean and sharp.

  Caesar looked Martin up and down trying to mask his suspicion. He didn’t usually trust people that were buttoned-up, and Martin certainly fit that mold. Gray suit, pressed shirt, shined shoes.

  “Yes, it’s quite unique here,” Martin said. “We’ve allocated a material amount of resources to make this a very special place.”

  “Where are we? I haven’t been able to get Internet access to figure out the location. It’s driving me a little nuts.” Caesar walked over to the desk and cracked the lid of the laptop. “I mean, even Starbucks has free Wi-Fi.”

  “Yes, I apologize for the lack of access to the outside world. I did ask the staff to hold your credentials until we had a chance to speak. That’s why I’m here. I’m hoping that we can get you back online as soon as
this afternoon, but first there are a few things I’d like to discuss. It won’t take long–”

  Martin was interrupted by a light, polite knock at the door.

  “That must be the tea.”

  As the tea service entered the room, the two men walked over to the sitting area, directly in front of the sweeping view of the grounds. The service tray clinked and clacked as the butler placed it on the chunky wood coffee table, resting firmly but still slightly off balance.

  “So where are we? What’s this all about?” Caesar watched with a suspicious eye as the butler placed the items in front of them: tea cups, a stark black kettle, and a carefully arranged plate of biscuits.

  “Ah, yes,” Martin said. “This is the Titanhurst mansion; the complex dates back to the mid-1700s. The building we’re in now was constructed in the 1920s by Sir Arnold Mayfield. He was a soap magnate, even knighted in 1938.”

  “The house that soap built?”

  “Yes, very good, that would seem to be the case. It’s the largest private residence in London, only behind Buckingham Palace. Our holding company acquired the grounds about six years ago, and we’ve been doing extensive renovations ever since.”

  Caesar walked to the window. Over the past few days, he had noticed the construction debris and fresh landscaping littering the grounds; it seemed as if the work was close to completion.

  “This house has over sixty-five rooms,” Martin continued, “but our build-out has concentrated primarily below ground. I won’t get into all the details of what lies beneath us, but it’s roughly the size of an American shopping mall.”

  “So you guys bought the biggest house in one of the most expensive real-estate markets in the world, and decided to make it even bigger? I figured that kind of thinking was just limited to America.”

  “Resources aren’t an issue for our group. We’re more focused on pushing ahead and meeting our goals, no matter the short-term cost. The long-term is always where our focus should be, wouldn’t you agree? Keeping your eyes on the horizon?”

  A ping rang out from Martin’s inner jacket pocket. “That’s odd.” He removed his phone, checking his notifications. As he read the message, his eyes narrowed.

  “What is it?” Caesar asked.

  “It’s Raven.” Martin said. “After the first few steps, I added notification triggers. The puzzle sends a ping whenever someone makes it past a step. I haven’t been pinged since back when you were solving it, but it seems that someone just cracked the audio code.”

  Caesar nodded, thinking back to the steps. “They’re in the thick of it now.”

  “Indeed.” Martin put the phone back in his pocket. “I’m interested in talking about your future, Caesar. But I’m sure you have a lot on your mind. What questions can I answer for you?”

  Caesar’s eyes lit up. “Everything—I want to know everything. I’m completely in the dark here. I solved your puzzle, which wasn’t that hard, by the way. What do I get for my trouble?”

  “An excellent question.” Martin smiled, standing and heading over to the apartment’s kitchen. “But if we’re going to start talking business, I’m going to need some coffee, not this terrible tea. Would you like some?”

  “Sure,” Caesar said, shrugging his shoulders. “Whatever.”

  “The tea, you see, is a formality,” Martin said as he poured two cups of dark, rich coffee into porcelain mugs. “A British custom, at least so I’ve heard.”

  Walking the coffee back to the table, Martin beamed as he took a long sip. Caesar watched Martin’s posture, his pose, his expression. It’s obvious this guy is in no hurry to get to the point here. Caesar leaned forward and stared his guest in the eyes.

  “Martin, I’ve been here for what, four days now, cooped up in this apartment? I don’t know why I’m here, and I’m starting to think that you don’t know what to do with me. But I think I may have just figured it out.”

  Martin sipped his coffee, listening.

  “You didn’t expect anyone to solve Raven,” Caesar continued. “You built a game without a payoff. You never figured that anyone would actually solve your puzzle, and then I knocked on your door. You couldn’t imagine that anyone out there was smarter than you. That’s it, isn’t it?”

  Martin said nothing.

  “Well it seems I’ve figured out the answer. The answer is me. I’m smarter than you. I solved your little riddle and I’m standing here, waiting for my prize. And the truth is, there is none. Am I right?”

  Martin chuckled to himself, taking another sip of his drink, the steam rising across his face.

  “So, I’ll make this easy,” Caesar said. “I need to leave. Now. I need to get back to New York. I have things to do—I’m an important guy. Let’s just get on with it.”

  There was a crisp stillness in the room as the two men stared across the table. After a few moments, Martin broke the silence.

  “This coffee, it’s wonderful. Don’t you think?” Martin said, with a sparkle in his eye.

  “It’s … sure. It’s fine.”

  “Colombian. The best in the world, at least with this year’s crop. You see, I have a confession: I love coffee. I love everything about it. When I go to bed at night, I dream—I dream, isn’t that crazy?—I dream about what my first cup of coffee will be like when I wake the next morning. Almost every single night. The taste, the scent. The black of the texture against a white porcelain cup. It’s just a little world of perfection, don’t you think?”

  A chill entered the room as Caesar heard a crack at the window. He snapped his head to look but saw nothing, just the sunlight flooding in from the courtyard. The sky was growing into a deep blue.

  “When Europeans first discovered coffee in the seventh century, they found it so rich and wonderful that they named it ‘Arabic wine.’ Arabic wine! Isn’t that a delight?” Martin said, with a grin stretched across his face.

  “Ok, can we stop talking about the coffee? I want some answers. Are you going to tell me why I’m here? Is today the lucky day when I find out what the hell is going on?”

  “It is, Caesar,” Martin said with a gleam in his eye. “Today is that lucky day. And I think you’re going to like what I have to tell you. You’re going to like it very, very much. But you’re going to need time. This I know.”

  “Time? What are you talking about?”

  Martin pointed a single, thin finger at Caesar. “Because I know that you’re a smart man. A very, very smart man. One who doesn’t jump to conclusions. A man that understands that new ideas need to be experienced to truly be understood.”

  Sitting back in his chair, Caesar shook his head with exhaustion. “You’re talking nonsense. I’m just completely lost.”

  “Yes, of course you are … of course. Let me give you an example. A perfect example. That coffee you’re drinking … when it was first brought to Europe, it was strange and new and not like anything people had ever seen before. In fact, many factions decided that it was not natural, not right. And as humans often do, they believed that this new thing that they had never seen before—this thing that they didn’t understand—must be poisonous to the soul. They believed the physical rush from coffee was, in fact, the work of the devil.”

  “Ok.”

  “Can you believe it? I, myself, cannot. To make up such tales about something so wonderful, it’s unthinkable. But it’s true, and what did they do when they didn’t understand this beautiful thing? They tried to destroy it. They went to the Pope—all the way to the Vatican, can you imagine?—asking him to declare this new, amazing thing outlawed across all his lands. And do you know what happened?”

  “I don’t,” Caesar said. “I really don’t.”

  Martin smiled. “Pope Clement VIII, with all his wisdom, decreed that he must first take a sip before making any decisions on the matter. He had to try this new thing, this new idea, that he was about to judge. How can you judge something that you’ve never experienced? Such wisdom! Such genius! And when he did, oh my goodness, Caesa
r, when he did, can you guess what happened then?”

  Carefully watching as Caesar shifted in his seat, Martin held his cup tightly with both hands. Martin stared with dead eyes, over and past Caesar’s right shoulder, out through the window and up at the blue, bright sky.

  “He took a sip!” Martin said. “Of course he took a sip! He drank the coffee and turned to these men, these men that had told him these lies and declared that this drink—this drink we now hold in our hands—was so wonderful that only sinners would declare it a sin. That it shouldn’t be banned, but blessed, because it was truly so wonderful. And instead of banning coffee from the land, do you know what he did?” Martin’s tone grew from excitement to anger as he clutched his cup tighter and tighter.

  Caesar sat, his heart beating faster, as he watched Martin’s shaking hands.

  “I’ll tell you what he did. He banished those men that had attempted to cloud his judgment with their lies, these men that were themselves poison for not believing in this power of a new idea. He sent them away to the deepest corners of the Vatican prisons, and they were never heard from again.”

  Martin gazed down from the window and into Caesar’s eyes, tossing his cup on the table with a crash of porcelain and a dark pool of liquid flying across the tabletop. Martin wiped the corners of his mouth, tucking in the sides of his crisp, white shirt.

  “So my question for you is simple, Caesar: are you ready to take your first sip?”

  Caesar began to feel the sweat form on his temple. He stared down at his coffee, now cold, sitting still and dark.

  “Because today is the day, Caesar. Today is your lucky day.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Interstate 101

  near Petaluma, CA

  March 9th, 1:32AM

  Haylie sparked up a fresh browser tab and typed “Brother Libra” into the search field. She hit enter and hovered over her keyboard.

  No way it will be this easy, right?

  All she saw was page after page of nonsense: search results for a failed alt-rock band from the early nineties, a contestant from a recent reality show that hadn’t made it to the finals, a Hindu book of astrology. All dead ends. Looking back to the spectrogram readout, she performed a series of Command+ keystrokes; zooming in.