SPYWARE BOOK (16 page)

He had reached the mid-point in the long, low causeway when white smoke suddenly exploded from the rear of the van in a great, looming cloud. Spurlock’s first thought wasn’t of his engine. What worried him was the smoke. All he needed now was another over-zealous cop out to clean up the environment by giving him a fix-it ticket. That would mean checking his plates, which would bring up his record, then this morning’s incident would be played out all over again.

“You bitch!” he yelled, beating the steering wheel. “You whore!”

It was right then that the headache struck him. An ice-pick drove itself into his skull directly behind his right eye. He screwed it shut and drove with his left for the time being. He had gone too long without a fix, and his body was close to a revolt. It couldn’t take on a new source of stress, a new frustration. It was rebelling like a lathered horse. He knew the headaches would get worse later, far worse. By tomorrow they would be like a pounding herd of horses, galloping through his head, throwing up soft pink clumps of tissue and leaving crescents of pooling blood behind them.

Signaling to switch from the center lane to the right lane, he watched the signs for the next exit. The first exit after the causeway was Milton. It would have to do. A young couple in an Audi pulled up to look at him and his explosive van curiously. Spurlock flipped them off.

He felt his skin crawl with the scrutiny of every driver on the narrow two-lane causeway. In his mirrors, every car looked like a black-and-white. It was harder to tell these days, the cops were buying all makes and models it seemed. He’d even seen a Camaro cop car once, down in Modesto. What bastards they were. Who would ever think to slow down because there was a Camaro in your mirror?

He made it to the Milton exit and rolled into a Chevron station. The engine still ran, but it chugged out smoke like a mother. He switched off the ignition.

“You whore,” Spurlock muttered again as he slammed down the stubby, weird-looking hood that vans always had. A blown head gasket, he figured, or a cracked block. Either way, he was through with this thing. Even if he had the money, fixing it would be a real pain. He didn’t have the tools to do it himself and mechanics
just might
become curious about the kid in the cage.

He thought about hoofing it, right then and there. Sure, after a half-hour or so the kid would get up the balls to beat on the wall of the van. Then, maybe tonight before quitting time, somebody would check it out. By that time he could be over to the bus station and out of this shit-eating burg. Sure, the kid could ID him, but he looked like a thousand other losers in this state, and he knew it.

Although it was no more than eighty degrees, he mopped sweat from his brow. His hand shook while he did it. The flaw with this plan, of course, was that it didn’t get him his money. He hated leaving money behind, especially when he needed it so badly.

He eyed the phone booth at the edge of the gas station’s blacktop. Growling to himself, he walked over to it and dropped a quarter.

This time, the phone picked up right away.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Santa,” he said, “I’m back in town and I’ve got a problem.”

“Did you lose the package yet?”

“Nope, but I’m about to, and I’m about to spill the beans all over the evening news.”

“What are you talking about, are you crazy?”

“No shit. I’m a fucking one-hundred-percent loon, bud,” he said, his voice rising. Santa sounded scared, and that gave Spurlock the first happy feeling in his gut he’d had all day.

“What’s going on?”

“What’s going on, Mr. Cringle sir, is a powerful plowing of your back-forty,” said Spurlock. He began toenjoy himself a bit. “Here’s how it is: I’m fucked, and I’m not going down alone. This thing has gotten too frigging big. I’ve made CNN—FUCKING CNN, MAN—and I
never
even make the local news. I make it my trademark
not to have
a trademark, and here you’ve gotten me into something that is completely insane.”

“You won’t give yourself up just to screw me. You don’t even know who I am.”

“Ah, but I’ve got your number, don’t I? And your operating handle.”

Santa chuckled. Spurlock thought that the fucker actually
did
sound a bit like Santa. “The number is useless. It’s quite untraceable.”

“Bullshit.”

“My technical people are the best,” Santa assured him.

“Are you sure about that? Are you sure that when the crap hits the blades, you won’t be the one chopped into a fine brown spray, my friend? Because, let me tell you, money and fear speak hard words. This case is big, and on TV, and that means the cops will actually give a shit. They’ll be all over you with gangs of feds you’ve never even heard of before.”

“Look, you can have your money, if that’s what this is all about.”

Spurlock smiled, he had him on the run now. It was time to push harder. “I NEED MORE THAN THAT NOW!” he screamed into the receiver, not finding it difficult to flash into a rage. What was difficult at this point was controlling himself at all.

“What do you need?” asked Santa cautiously.

Spurlock smiled more broadly, and his headache eased a bit. He was able to open his right eye now. Not all the way, but it was a start.

He told Santa what he wanted for Christmas.

. . . 48 Hours and Counting . . .

Like so many before him on stake-out duty, Ray found himself nodding off when the moment finally came. He had had little sleep for the last three days, and it was catching up with him. His eyes closed, then opened, blinking, then closed again. Half-aware, he watched as another user logged on, Turtledove, this time. Then another, Vader was the handle. Vader logged off and Turtledove struck up a conversation with Whiskeydick, who seemed to have no life other than to chat-up anyone on this popular board.

After Whiskeydick and Turtledove got into an argument and broke it off when someone called Snowflake came onto the scene. It was a new user: ‘noob’ said the status line, rudely. Ray looked at the screen with one, half-open eye. His arms were crossed over his chest and he had sagged down into his chair. He wondered vaguely as he dozed if he was indistinguishable from the homeless crowd in the carrels.

Earlier a librarian volunteer had come around and asked if she could help him. That meant, he knew, she didn’t really want him back here in the side rooms, which were reversible, but normally kept locked. Leaning forward to hide his notebook computer, he had leered at her and told her he was doing just fine. Fortunately, she was the timid type. She had nodded, blinking rapidly, and hurried away. He had not been disturbed again, but he felt sure that he was under casual scrutiny now and then. Falling asleep on the job put him in the exactly the category he wanted to be in.

But it wasn’t finding Justin any faster. Using that thought and a deep breath to wake himself up, he touched the mouse. He clicked on Snowflake and brought up a window of more detailed information on the user. He watched as Snowflake performed several scanning commands of his or her own. Snowflake was reading mail, and since this was a new user, that meant Snowflake was reading the mail of others. Ray sat up, fiddled with the mouse further. The mail messages flashed up. Snowflake skipped directly to Santa’s mail and read it.

“Son-of-a-bitch,” muttered Ray, sitting up. Could this be the one?

Snowflake read the message Ray had sent hours ago to Santa. Two other patrons logged on, Foobar and Budha. Ray ignored them, watching Snowflake intently. All thought of sleep was gone now. His heart pounded as he watched the screen.

Budha moved to open a back-channel with Snowflake. Ray sucked in his breath. He glided the mouse up to the SNOOP button and he clicked on it.

Budha:
I’m here.

Snowflake:
Someone else is, too.

Budha was silent for perhaps ten seconds.

Snowflake:
You still there?

Budha:
How do you know?

Snowflake:
I know. Someone’s made me on this system.

Budha:
What’s the deal with the kid?

Snowflake fell silent.

Budha:
hello?

Snowflake:
fat fucking idiot

Budha:
screw you too, man

Snowflake:
Keep your typing neutral

Budha:
You’re getting paranoid. I don’t think anyone is listening.

Snowflake:
All right. We have to talk.

Budha:
We ARE talking, man.

Snowflake:
About your little software surprise.

Budha:
Oh, that. I don’t think they’ve figured out about the eggs it’s been laying yet.

Snowflake:
At least not publicly.

Budha:
When do WE go public and save the net?

Snowflake:
Maybe never. Things have gotten too hot.

Budha:
Never? But the countdown is half-gone.

Snowflake:
Don’t you think I know that?

Budha:
It’s changing so much. The progression out on the open net... it isn’t the way I thought it would be.

Snowflake:
Are you saying that you can’t stop it?

Budha:
Maybe yes, maybe no. Depends on how far it’s mutated. The longer we go the worse it is.

Snowflake:
All right then, put it out on the net here and there, anonymously if you want.

Budha:
With no profit, then? Mission aborted, huh?

Snowflake:
Right. Mission Aborted.

Budha:
But if it’s too hot, I don’t want them somehow tracing me back.

Snowflake:
Then do nothing, it’s the safest course for both of us.

Budha:
But what about the net?

Snowflake:
Let the whole thing burn. Nobody will trace anything after that.

The two of them broke the channel after that. Ray hurried to sat the log file of their conversation on his disk. Then he sat back in shock, rubbing his chin. There were so many unanswered questions. Budha logged off. Ray realized he was about to lose them both, not knowing what else to do, he jumped forward in his chair and clicked on Snowflake. He requested a private connection. He did it with his heart in his mouth, knowing that he had just revealed himself and his Foghorn handle.

Perhaps two minutes passed. Ray’s heart pounded. He watched Snowflake carefully, but the other didn’t log off. He knew that at some other computer somewhere, a blinking request was on the screen, like a phone that just kept on ringing and ringing. Finally, the request was accepted.

Snowflake:
Who’s there?

Foghorn:
Another user who’s too hooked on chatting to stop just ‘cause the big net is down.

Snowflake:
Bullshit. Who’s there?

Ray paused, unsure how to proceed. At first, he thought he should pose as a student and try to chat-up Snowflake. Maybe he could garner a hint as to the other’s true identity. But now, he didn’t think that would work, Snowflake was too wary.

Snowflake:
Scared, Vance?

Ray compressed his lips. This was challenge now, and he knew it. Snowflake felt invunerable, and was showing off. That was a clue in itself. He decided to take on a more aggressive stance. He would take on the personna of a hacker, a snoop to be sure, but not Dr. Ray Vance. The net was like a masquerade party where everyone’s costume was as perfect. The only thing that could give away a person’s true identity was in what was said.

Foghorn:
I’ve been watching you for awhile, fellow hacker. Snowflake/Santa/elf-boy, whatever your handle of the day is, I like your predatory style.

Again, Snowflake fell silent. Ray would have crossed his fingers, but he dared not take them from the keyboard. He decided to prod further. Ray tried to think like Jake, to sound like him. It had only been ten years ago, and he had been Jake. Funny, how quickly time changed someone. He went on the attack.

Foghorn:
Come on, Snowman! Are you scared? Do you think you’re the only one who ever talked big on the net?I know all about you already.

Snowflake:
What do you think you know?

Foghorn:
You’re male, for one thing. Too willing for a confrontation. Not playful enough for a female.

Snowflake:
Your attempts have been commendable, but think I must go now.

Foghorn:
Scared, Santa?

There was another pause.

Snowflake:
Yes. And you should be too, Vance. Remember that ugliness, like beauty, is also in the eyes of the beholder.

The connection was broken. Snowflake had logged off. Ray sat back in deep thought. Now that he had played out his only firm lead, he felt near despair. Surely, Santa would never log onto this bulletin board again.

He didn’t even notice when the lights were flicked off and on again, signaling to all the patrons that the library was closing. It wasn’t until a single, light finger tapped his shoulder that he noticed the timid librarian. She snatched back her finger and furrowed her brow. She looked at him with the eyes of a postman who has found a big dog on the wrong side of its master’s fence.