Hack (20 page)

I was Ripley-Halsey-Johnson. I was strange. I was a computer criminal. I had done time.

I stood on the sidewalk in front of her house, trying to figure out how to contact her without anybody else knowing.

Then I heard a voice shouting. I could tell that it was raised in anger. I strained to hear. It was coming from the kitchen. I moved around to that side of the house, so I could see through the window.

“It’s seven-thirty,” the voice said. I recognized it as the voice of Grace’s stepfather. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know.” That was Grace’s voice. There was fear in it.

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I slowly edged forwards until I could see through the kitchen window. Grace was sitting at the table. Her shoulders were hunched up, and one side of her face was red. The makeup on her cheeks was smudged from tears.

I could also see Grace’s mother standing in the doorway with her arms folded, glaring at Grace. I couldn’t see the stepfather, and I wondered where he was. Then he moved into view. His hands were on his hips, and he was dressed in his familiar trucker clothes. Only now, I could see at the back of his belt was a gun holster, with a small black gun in it.

“You were supposed to get him back before seven o’clock. Where the hell is he?”

“How many times do you want me to say it? I don’t know. I don’t know! He left me, and I didn’t see him after that.”

Grace’s stepfather moved close to Grace, his face contorted with anger.

“Just what did you say to him on your little trip?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were told to watch him.”

“I did what you said.”

I knew what I was seeing; it was a set-up. Grace was a honey pot. She was a trap for me, a computer nerd, who didn’t know the first thing about women. I had been played. Hannah, Richard, Philips, and Garman—they were nothing more than criminals. My “FBI home” was nothing but a set-up. The target wasn’t Malik. There was no Malik.
I
was the target—
me
, a guy with a way into the Pentagon, the heart of the American military. It was me they were after—Karl Ripley, nominated by the free press as the greatest computer hacker of all time.

I
had been hacked.

“Maybe you tipped him off?”

Grace shook her head. “Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you forgot what happens to your daddy if he doesn’t come back.”

“He’ll come back.”

“He’s probably somewhere by himself,” said Grace’s mother. “He's a loner.

That’s what he does. He goes off . . .”

“Keep out of it!” said Grace’s stepfather, or whoever he was. He turned back to Grace.

“I swear to God, if you told him anything . . .”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“ . . . your daddy’s going to be disappointed. Dead disappointed.”

“It’s not his fault!” Grace said, with horrible desperation.

Grace wiped tears from her cheeks. I had to go. I crept back from window, and then ran down the street. My heart was pounding, and I could feel cold perspiration on my skin. I knew I couldn’t stay on the street. I made my way to the fields that surrounded the houses.

“Dead disappointed,” Grace’s fake stepfather had said. These people were killers. I knew that now. I ran on, through the total blackness, stumbling and falling because of the uneven ground.

I stopped and looked back at the neighborhood. In the distance, the lights looked peaceful; but in one of those houses were some people who wanted what I had, 90

and would probably kill to get it. They had set up houses, created fake IDs, registered me at a school; and would go to any lengths to get it.

I stumbled on. I searched for money in my pocket, and pulled out my mobile phone. It was the one I had gotten from Grace. She had given it to me, because cell phones can be tracked. I took the battery out, and then threw it and the phone as far as I could.

I took out my money, and strained to count out enough for a train ticket. But to where? Where was I going? Anywhere but here. I looked around. I needed to find a phone to call a taxi. I’d have to go to the next town. That was my only hope.

After I had gotten my breath back, I started jogging again. Eventually, I came out to a major street. On the corner was a seedy-looking convenience store, and a public pay phone. I prayed that it was functioning.

Fortunately, it was. The phone book was missing, but I had already called for so many taxis during the past week that I had the company’s number memorized.

Ten minutes that seemed like an hour later, the cab arrived, and stopped in front of the house I had asked him to wait at. He honked the horn, and looked at the house. When nobody appeared, he started to radio it in, probably asking if they had got the location correct. I looked around. The place was deserted. I moved out of the cover of the bushes, ran over to the taxi, and startled the driver.

“It’s Halsey. I rang you. What’s the next town called?”

“Englewood.”

“Take me to the train station in Englewood.”

The driver looked at me as if I had come from another planet. I must have looked a sight. That’s when I realized that my hiding in the bushes, sneaking around Grace's house, and running across the dark and muddy field, had left my clothes really dirty.

I held up a twenty-dollar bill, to show him I had money.

“You can keep the change,” I said.

Eventually, the dubious driver told me to get in, pocketed the note, and moved off. I ducked down, and put my head on the seat.

“How long to get to the station?” I asked the driver.

“Ten

minutes.”

“I’m going to close my eyes until we’re there.”

The driver drove on, uninterested in the oddball in the back of his cab. With my head on the seat, I listened to the hum of the engine, and watched the streetlights flicker past with hypnotic regularity. I tried to blank my brain, and to think of the future.

The tiny train station was quiet, and dimly lighted. I looked around. There was nobody on the platform, and nobody in the waiting room. The only person there was the ticket seller behind his window.

“How long until the next train?”

“To

where?”

“Anywhere.”

The man gave me a sour look, but checked his schedule and said, “Twenty minutes.”

I bought a ticket, and then moved into the shadows near the end of the platform. Many times during my life, I had come to the conclusion that the road to hell was paved with other people. Now, I had a longing to see some friendly face. But I didn’t have any friends. I could open my mouth and charm the passwords out of people, but there was nothing in me that knew how to make real friends. Like Grace?

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I watched the minutes pass silently and slowly on the big station clock. At the nominated time, I heard a sound and turned my head. I saw a faint light in the distance, which grew nearer, as a train pulled into the station with a rhythmic clang.

From my hiding place, I looked around. The platform was still deserted.

Looking through the train's windows I could see nobody on board. I approached the door and extended my arm.

“Going somewhere?” said a voice behind me. I turned my head to see who it was. But I didn’t make it. A bolt of lightning suddenly lit up the sky, illuminating the station with bright light, and a spike of pain traveled from my head down my spine.

Then the light went away, and everything faded to black.

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I slowly became aware of the humming sound of a car’s engine, and the flicker of passing streetlights overhead. I let out a breath of relief. I was still alive, still in the taxi, still going to the station. Exhausted, I had nodded out. My misery was nothing more than a strange hypnagogic mishap. So why did my head hurt so badly? I tried to move my hand to my head, but couldn’t.

“The boy’s awake,” said a sarcastic voice. I opened my eyes fully and sat up. I was in a strange car. In the front were two men I had never seen before. I was wearing handcuffs, which were so tight that they hurt, though nothing like my head. I looked around. From the corner of my vision, I could see the legs of someone sitting next to me. I went to turn my head, and instantly regretted it. Slowly, carefully, I managed to look to my right, and saw Grace sitting quietly beside me. She was wearing handcuffs, too. She didn’t look at me. She was looking out the window.

“My head,” I croaked. My voice seemed detached from me.

The first man, who was driving the car, said “Sorry about that headshot, Karl, but you have a habit of squirming out of situations, and we couldn’t take the chance.

I’m sure you understand.”

From my place behind the driver, I couldn’t see his face, but I heard a quiet snort and realized that the men were amused. I saw his head, with its shaved hair—

like an old fashioned crew-cut—move up and down as he quietly chuckled. He seemed happy with his night’s work.

“You don’t mind if we ask you a few questions before you go back to prison for a long time, do you?” said the second man. He smiled, widening his moustache, which was as blond as his hair.

I didn’t answer because my brain was too fogged to grok anything.

We rode on in silence.

“Who are you?” I said eventually.

“We are what you might call the
real
FBI,” said Crew-cut.

“As opposed to little Miss Hot Pants here,” added Moustache, “and her criminal friends.”

“No,” I said. “I’m working for the FBI. Take me home. They’ll explain. Call Agent Philips. Garman, too. Call them. Talk to them.”

Moustache opened the glove box. The light went on, and I saw a pistol strapped to the roof of the compartment. He pulled out several photographs.

“Do you mean this Philips?” He showed me a mug shot. In it, a disheveled Philips was holding an arrest card in front of his chest. I shook my head.

“I don’t think he gets it,” said Moustache to Crew-cut.

“How about this one?”

He held up another photograph. This one was Philips joking with Garman and Malik in a bar. They looked drunk.

“But they came to me in jail.”

“Anybody can get into jail,” said Crew-cut. “It’s getting out that’s the difficult part.”

I looked at Moustache. He seemed to be pleased with himself, like the cat that got the cream. How long had he been sitting cramped in this car, watching me, thinking of the day when he would be able to haul me in, and even the score for the FBI. “Not so smart, are you?” said his gaze.

“Where are we going?” I said eventually.

“You know where,” said Crew-cut grimly.

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Within a minute, the car pulled up in front of a police station.

Suddenly, Moustache leaned into the back of the car, and grabbed me by the shirt. He pulled me to him, almost choking me. My head felt like it was going to explode.

His eyes were inches from mine.

“Make one crack when we get inside, and I will kick the living daylights out of you,” he said quietly and calmly.

Both agents got out of the car and opened the doors.

“Let’s

go.”

Moustache took my arm and led me up the steps into the police station.

Grace and Crew-cut followed behind. Inside, Crew-cut flashed a blue and white FBI badge at the desk sergeant.

“I need an interview room,” he said.

“I need some water,” I said lamely.

Moustache poked me in the chest. It hurt like a bullet. The sergeant held his hand out, and Crew-cut handed him the badge. He squinted at the badge, and then looked at over at me, his eyes moving up and down.

“Who have you got there, Al Capone?” he asked, without any trace of humor.

“It’s been a long night,” said Crew-cut shortly, refusing the police banter.

The sergeant typed Crew-cut’s details into the computer on the desk. From where I was I couldn’t see the screen, which was turned toward the sergeant, but I watched the keyboard, as he typed, one finger at a time, “E-d-w-a-r-d-s.”

Then he gestured at Moustache, who let go of my arm and with a grim expression of bored annoyance, took out his badge and gave it to the sergeant, who typed in his details into the computer,

“M-o-o-t-delete-r-e.” Then he handed Moore’s badge back, and gave Edwards a key.

“Room three,” he said. “Sign the book.” He sounded as if he had already said it a thousand times that day.

Edwards signed the book that was on the desk, and we went down the corridor. Edwards opened the door, and I was back in a police interview room again.

Moore sat me in a chair, as if I was a child who had been naughty. Then the two FBI agents, talkative a minute ago, sat quietly, content to stare at me. I looked at Grace, who sat on the other side of the table. She didn’t look at me. She stared quietly at nothing. Her eyelashes were wet from tears. I thought of our trip to Knight’s house.

Had she been serious about coming with me? I would never know.

Another five silent minutes passed. Apparently, Edwards and Moore were not going to question me. We were all waiting for someone. I could guess who: Agent North of the Cyber Crime and Broken Parole Division. I had to try something.

“I didn’t do anything,” I said.

“Huh,” said Moore. “How come the smartest guy in the world of silicon chips is the dumbest goon in the annals of crime? Thanks to you, the birds flew away, leaving just these little canaries, both trying to flap their wings and fly away. That means that you and her take the rap alone. They left her behind. ‘Thick as thieves,’

huh?”

“Let her go, and I’ll cooperate. I’ll tell you what you want to know. She wasn’t part of it.”

Edwards and Moore laughed.

“Priceless,”

said

Edwards.

I opened my mouth to talk, but Moore interrupted.

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“Shut your mouth. There is nothing you can say to us that could possibly interest us.”

“We’re not here to make any deals,” said Edwards. “That’s out of the question now, even if we wanted to. We’re just babysitting you until the cavalry arrives. You remember Agent North?”

“Why let him take all the credit? Do you owe him something? Is he your boss?”