The first of Mike's Emails.

Mike finally sent me that Emil, so we can keep the story going. It's not as well-written as Allen, but the story is what matters.

Okay, we had just gotten the computer from his backyard, and we took it back to our motel. I hooked it up and started sifting through it. It was running Ubuntu, a nice little custom setup. We found what we needed pretty quick. The computer had been put there by a man named Kieth Meadows. He lived in the area, and we decided to go check it out. There was also a folder of photographs on the computer. Allen Recognized a lot of the pictures as places that he had found clues before. I didn't recognize any of them, and he said there were some that he didn't know either. 

We left for Kieth's house, and found him sitting out on his porch. He was an old dude, sixty, seventy, maybe. We didn't ask. He brought us into his house, and told us that he was the person who had delivered the heart, and who had been in charge of cutting it out of Greg. He kept looking around his house like he was nervous, and that just didn't sit right with Allen. Something about his movements, I guess. Eventually, Allen figured it out. The old bastard had been bugged. We saw the camera and Allen jumped up and grabbed it down, pulling the cords out. It was a stupid thing to do, of course, but I think he just panicked. Then he turned to the old guy and asked him what was going on. Kieth explained that he had been roughed up by some cops. The computer was legit, and that there were more pieces of the puzzle still out there. He swore up and down that he was on our side, but Allen didn't trust him anymore. He grabbed the old guy, and we drug him to the car. The place would be swarming with creeps any second, so we had to get out of there, but he wanted to get more info out of Kieth, so we brought him along, and ran as fast as we could.

I hope that's enough for now, we've got a whole lot of work to do tonight, so I'll wright you more soon. Send me an email in a couple days to remind me.

I'll try to keep hounding people to keep this going. I feel like I should tell you that I don't really know what Allen was doing here. He's got a lot of stuff in this blog that I just don't get. I have no idea why he chose that name, or what it means. Sometimes when a person dies, they leave a lot of questions behind. I'm going to do my best to answer them for you.

In Memoriam

I don't know if anyone reads this, or if you are aware, Judging on the comments, and the last post, I think nobody is. I'm being cryptic. "Allen" is dead. I recovered his body three days ago in Arizona. Apparently, he has been referring to me on this blog as "Silas" That'll have to do. I'm going to try to finish what he started. I think this story is important, and "Allen" would have wanted it finished. It's going to be a bit tricky for me to fill in some of the blanks, but there are other people who knew him, and who helped him. I've contacted "Mike" and he's going to email me soon with that.

I just wanted to tell you all that this man has died. 

He was a brave man, and we all lost something with him.

Homecoming

     The server that hosted the website was pinging from inside my own house, back in Riverside. It didn't make any damn sense, but mike and i agreed, we were going to my old house, and we would find out what was going on. The gps told us it'd be about a day and a half of constant driving, so we paced ourselves and made it there in about four days. Nothing exciting about the trip, really, so let's skip ahead to my house.
     The newspapers were piling up on the front porch, and the lawn had died while I was gone. The leaves from my tree in the front had all fallen off, but I think it was still alive. We approached the house nervously, it was surreal, honestly, to be in my own home, and have it be abandoned. Like visiting your old school, familiar, and completely foreign all at once. The house was empty, the power had been shut off months ago. so how was there internet? It didn't make any sense. Nothing seemed out of place,. which considering the rush I had left in seemed like an impossibility. Somebody had clearly tidied the house up a little bit while I was gone.
     I looked through the whole house, but I couldn't seem to find the computer. I wandered into the back yard, and nothing seemed out of place at first. Then I noticed a light mounted over my back door. One of those solar-charged motion-detector types. It didn't belong to me, and even more strangely, it didn't light when I moved in front of it. I hopped up on a chair and lifted it off of its screws, bringing it into the house. Mike popped it open and found inside that it was a small computer. They apparently make them about the size of a vhs now. I didn't know, but Mike recognized it immediately., and shoved the whole thing into his bag.
     he said he couldn't do anything with it here, without power, so we'd have to take it with us. I grabbed some more things from my house, and we left for the day.

Mike Works Magic

I took a screenshot of the site.

     We shook off our hangovers, and mike powered into the website.
There was nothing interesting about it. Nothing. It was a simple webpage, with a .jpg stuck into the middle of it. He tracked the i.p. through two proxies, and bumped into a firewall, somewhere in the caiman islands. So, mike started his bigger computer on the firewall, and left it to grind away. Meanwhile, he moved to his smaller computer to focus on the site again.he started sifting through in detail, and opened up the source code of the site. Then he opened up the .jpg in some program i didn't understand and started scrolling through the code. He knew that Gregory had built that site for a specific reason, but the surface of it didn't mean anything. I watched him scroll through all the code, and while I didn't understand any of it, Mike seemed to read through it with ease. He flew through it a mile-a minute, then suddenly he stopped scrolling, and I saw his eyebrow pop up, before he opened his web browser. He opened the site again, and put a backslash in, with a short string of text. I won't say what the website was, but after the slash he wrote "spite_and_malice".
     Immediately we watched a new webpage load with a log in screen. We were so frustrated with this stuff. Every attempt we made to make sense of it all just raised more questions. Mike Got to work on that log in page, and I left to get breakfast. I grabbed some breakfast sandwiches and coffees, and headed back to the hotel. I was gone maybe twenty minutes, and when I returned, mike was in the shower, but his little laptop was open on my bed. He had a user name plugged in, and the computer was repeatedly punching in passwords.
It was October 23rd. I had been chasing this stuff down for four months. I didn't really know anything that I didn't know on that day in June when a heart appeared on my doorstep. Well, I had learned to shoot, I had learned to stitch myself up, but I hadn't come to understand what was happening around me.
     I sat on the bed and lifted my pistol off of the nightstand. I spun the chamber in my hand staring at it for a long while. I took the safety off, just as mike left the bathroom. He saw what I was doing, and I became immediately embarrassed. He didn't say anything, but it was in his eyes. I put the safety back on, and put the gun back down. Mike walked to his computer, looked at it for a second, and then moved back to the other bed. He grabbed a sandwich and turned on the TV.
A half an hour later, his big computer beeped a note, and he got up, and dashed to it. He had made it past the firewall in the caimans, and was ready to keep tracking the i.p. Forty minutes after that, he had found the last address in the chain.
It was in my hometown.
In fact, it was in my house.

Finding Faulkner

     Hiding out in another hotel, smashing my head against the wall. I had him, right there in my hands. RIGHT THERE, and I had to let him go. If I hadn't there would have been an investigation about the murders, and Mike hadn't been wearing gloves. I was trying to think of something anything that could help me make sense of all of this. The list, the detective, the secret data center, the puzzles, the man in the lake, and his beating heart, none of it made any sense to me. It was infuriating, knowing nothing, and feeling like I was being shoved around by forces I couldn't control. Forces I couldn't even talk to.
     At that moment, something occurred to me that I should have realized on day one. Gregory Faulkner could not have stapled his chest shut. Gregory Faulkner couldn't have wired up his own heart to tell me a clue. Gregory Faulkner was the source of my problems, and I needed to understand him.
      I sat down and talked to Mike, told him everything that had happened. He hadn't heard anything before the data center, and was surprised to find out that I had taken on this job without knowing Gregory at all. I guess it put things in perspective for him, he left the hotel and came back with food and a bottle of plastic bottle vodka and orange juice.
     It was terrible stuff, but it did the trick. We sat in our hotel room, and did a lot of internet research about Faulkner. As you know, Gregory Faulkner is an alias that I gave him, since I've changed all the names here, but the name we searched turned out to also be an alias. There was a long series of webpages about this man, most of them had 404'd, or were taken down, but we found two websites that mattered. Each page held a message, the first one read:

     "Those of you who knew Gregory Faulkner remember him as a brave man who fought for what he believed in. We all loved him very much, but do not make his mistakes, he was wrong."

The second site we found sitting on the computer screen when we woke up. We had apparently gotten drunker than we thought. But when we woke up, we found a simple white webpage with a faint grey omega symbol on it.

Interrogation.

I had Wilson firmly by the throat, but I didn't take any chances. Mike climbed up the stairs, and took my gun, and held it on Ingram While I patted him down. I kept the knife from his ankle, and the derringer from under his coat, and sat him up in a chair in one of the rooms upstairs. I tied him in a shredded sheet, and began to talk.

"How's your arm?" I had no idea how to interrogate someone, but I saw the blood leaking from where the bone was sticking out of his forearm, so I asked.

"Really? That's where you start? It's great, Allen. I'm sure it will heal up nice, and we'll be playing tennis again anytime now." What an asshole.

"Fine. How's this? Why are you killing these people, and how are they connected?" I shouted more than I meant to.

"No Allen, you know I won't tell you any of that. Try again." He was calm, and incredibly irritating. I did something a bit rough, and nudged the bone. He screamed, and I asked again.
He started laughing. Laughing at the top of his lungs. I shoved the gun into his face, pressing it between his eyes. His brow furrowed, and the laughter stopped.

"Interesting... are you going to shoot me, Allen? If you shoot me, I can't tell you anything. That's what you want, isn't it? Information?" He started laughing again, and after about ten seconds of laughter, violent, full-body laughs, a small spurt of blood shot out of his arm, and he blacked out. He was still breathing, still had a pulse, but he had lost so much blood that he collapsed. Mike and I put his gun back in his hand, repositioned him in the room with the father and the son, and left, calling 911 from a payphone in the area and reporting gunfire from the neighborhood. Then we threw away the bloody sheets and hid.

An Old Friend

Mike was a faster driver than me. Lots of zipping in and out of lanes, lots of speeding. We dashed to the house of the first man as fast as we could. The door was left open, swinging, and we sprinted in through it. We heard a thud upstairs, and I rushed up, leaving mike at the door to stand guard. I couldn't believe what I saw when I hit the landing. The first man was curled up in the corner of the nursery, covering his child as well as he could, and standing over him was the last person I expected: Wilson Ingram, the cop who first attacked me. I immediately had my pistol trained on him, and he looked up as I entered the room. He smiled an acid smile at me, and fired two shots, one for father, one for son, and greeted me like an old friend.
"Allen, what a pleasant surprise."
He trained his gun on me next, and I ducked into the hallway to avoid his shot, which shattered a door at the end of the hall. The laughter was unsettling, he just broke out and laughed. "Good to see you've gotten quicker, Alan! Let's have some fun!"
Ingram walked slowly down the hall, toward the door I was hiding behind, leading with his pistol. I heard him fire another shot, followed by a shout from downstairs. Mike. He was unarmed, and I had left him alone. I jumped out from behind the door, and found Ingram pointing his gun downward. I lept at him, and caught his arm, knocking him to the ground. He pulled the trigger as his arm hit the floor and broke under my shoulder. He wailed on me with his free hand, and I pinned his throat under my elbow, and used my left hand to take his gun from the now limp arm. I held it to his head and told him to hold still. I called for mike, who responded that he was fine, and then began my interrogation of Wilson Ingram.