Spyware

by V. B. Larson

  “Oh,” said Mrs. Trumble, seeming put out, “he just asked that you get hold of a person called: ‘Magic Avila’ and ask them to meet Ray for lunch at, um, dot-com somewhere.”

  Sarah closed her eyes and restrained herself from grabbing the woman’s sleeve. “Do you know the exact address?”

  “Address?” asked Mrs. Trumble in bewilderment. “You mean the address of the restaurant?”

  “The restaurant?”

  “Well, I assume that’s where they’d be meeting,” she said.

  “No, no,” said Sarah, “dot-com is part of an internet address. He wants this person, Magic, to meet him on the net, not in person.”

  “Oh,” said Mrs. Trumble blankly.

  “Dot-com is only part of the address, and a very common part indeed. Do you have the rest?”

  “Well, I don’t see how you can meet for lunch and not be in the same room, but I suppose I’ve heard everything else. Now, let’s see…” said Mrs. Trumble, digging in her purse. “Abner told me I should write it down, so I think I did. Yes.”

  She produced a scrap of paper. On it was scrawled the internet address: NO CARRIER DOT-COM. Sarah automatically translated it in her mind to the internet form: nocarrier. com.

  Now all she had to do was figure out who and where Magic Avila was.

  Nogatakei’s apartment was horrific. Vasquez, who loved nothing more than a clean house, was speechless. Stuff was everywhere, disks, magazines, unwashed clothing, half-eaten food in various states of decay and just plain dirt. It was impossible to walk two feet without stepping on something disgusting. Bizarre toys of rubber and springs squeaked and hopped by themselves when they were nudged. A cobweb caught her full in the face as she tried to make it to the kitchen.

  “Yaah!” she cried out in annoyance.

  “You said it,” said Johansen, “I’ve seen nicer looking murder scenes.”

  From the door way the landlady called in, “I told you. I always knew the boy was wrecking the place, but when I complained he just doubled the deposit. Paid me cash, too. After he doubled it twice, I stopped bothering him. And if he’s skipped out or headed for jail, I’m gonna keep it all, let me tell you.”She rattled a thick ring of keys, and haunted the hallway, but was reluctant to enter. Vasquez didn’t blame her.

  “If this is his place, I’m going to love meeting the man himself,” she said. The fridge was zoological exhibit of microbial flora and fauna.

  “Ah, here’s evidence of Vance, I’ll bet,” said Johansen. He pointed to a tire iron that had skewered a keyboard neatly. Vasquez made her way back to the living room and had to stand on her tiptoes to see past a bank of dusty computer monitors.

  “Take a few shots of it,” she suggested. “Are there any other signs of a struggle?”

  “Who can tell in this place? If they had a fight in here, I’m not sure I could tell the difference. At least I don’t see any bloodstains,” said Johansen. He pulled out a digital camera and went to work. “I’ll bet you this tool came from the trunk of a Honda Civic.”

  “I’ll bet you’re right, and I’m almost sorry we found it. Now we’ll have to get a warrant to really search the place.”

  “No warrant?” squawked the landlady. Evidently, she had been quietly listening out on the doorstep. “You people are crazy.”

  “We just asked you to let us in for a look around, ma’am,” called Johansen, “just following up a lead.”

  “You think you’re on TV?” laughed the landlady. Vasquez was reminded ever more distinctly of an unpleasant, squawking bird. “When the cops get here, they’re going to be pissed.”

  “Cops?” asked Johansen. The two agents exchanged glances.

  “This place is alarmed to the hilt and bugged, too. I thought you were legit, otherwise I wouldn’t have let you in,” she squawked.

  Vasquez ground her teeth and they both struggled through the junk to the door. Outside, they blinked in the sunlight. She imagined that Nog rarely came out by day.

  Johansen pointed out to the parking lot where a squad car was pulling up, lights off. “This will cost us two hours, I’d say.”

  “Davis is a small town,” said Vasquez, “I’d guess three.”

  … 57 Hours and Counting…

  Spurlock awakened groggily. He owned no alarm clock, and birdsongs had no effect upon him. It was the sun that had finally ended his slumber. Beaming in the cracks of his cardboard fan-fold sun visor, it tickled his face with tiny hot streaks and assaulted his optic nerves behind his closed eyelids.

  “Oh shit,” he sighed. He heard a movement in the back. The kid. It had to be the kid. He heaved himself around.

  “What are you up to, you little rat-bastard?” he asked the gloomy interior of the van. It was about ten, he figured, and the van was getting hot already. He tried to climb out of his ripped-vinyl seat. He failed on the first attempt, betrayed by a nerveless left leg.

  He collapsed back into his seat and cursed while massaging the prickling leg back to life. He craned his neck around and thought to see movement back there.

  “You’d better not be out of your cage,” he chuckled, shaking his head, “or they’ll be hell to pay, little bastard.”

  After that, there was silence behind him. He finally got up and managed to limp into the back. The kid was still there, locked in his cage. His eyes were big and round with fear, which caused Spurlock to grunt in approval. But something appeared odd about his gag. He opened the top of the cage and reached down to grab the kid by the neck. Checking the gag, he found it had been damaged, and now only hung there by a thread.

  “Oh, now you’ve done it, boy!” he roared. “This is gonna be good!”

  He resecured the gag, this time cruelly tight. He reached in and lifted the kid by his neck, but the little shit struggled and wriggled free, dropping to the bottom of the cage. Spurlock growled and took hold of his hair.

  Outside came the sound of an engine, then the crunch of tires on gravel. Spurlock froze. A door crumped. Someone approached the van.

  He scrambled back to the driver’s seat and looked into the side mirror. A California Highway Patrolman approached. Spurlock could see the black and white parked behind him. He could hear its engine idling.

  Immediately, his mind went to the cheap. 22 he kept under his seat. He pulled it out and slipped it under his right leg. It looked like a black squirt-gun. It wasn’t much; the barrel was so short that he couldn’t hit a beer can with it at five feet. Still, he knew a quick spray of bullets at close range would drop anyone.

  The patrolman came up to his window slowly, taking his time. Spurlock thought about faking sleep, but rejected the idea. Just as the patrolman came even with his window, he reached over and dug around in his glove compartment box for his registration. He had once saw one of those cop shows in which of the smug pigs explained he always suspected trouble when a driver wasn’t moving. Most people, he explained, were digging about for their license, proof of insurance and car registration when they were pulled over. Those who were waiting to blast you didn’t bother.

  “You’ll probably be wanting my ID, sir,” he said over his shoulder. “I know my papers are somewhere in here.”

  The cop didn’t say anything, he just frowned and ran his eyes around the interior of the van. Spurlock could feel those eyes, burrowing into his back. There was no way to miss the curtains. He knew all too well how a cop’s mind worked. What was behind them? Drugs? Smuggled parrots from Brazil? A cage full of kids? Any pig would be dying to know. He hoped desperately that this fucker didn’t have to die to find out.

  “Got it right here, sir,” he said, passing a handful of paper out the window. He prayed the cop hadn’t bothered to type his license number into his computer yet. His record would do nothing to improve the pig’s mood.

  The cop eyed the papers dubiously. “Is the van broken down?”

  “No sir,” said Spurlock, shaking his head emphatically. “I was just about to get on my way up to Redding. I’ve been driving all
night up from L.A., sir and I stopped to take a nap.”

  The cop continued to stare at the papers and didn’t appear to have heard him. Perhaps a half-minute passed. Spurlock smiled on the outside, but inside he was a screaming wreck. Why did this fucking cop have to find me? Why doesn’t the little rat-bastard kid just kick the wall already and get it over with? Just one kick, and it’s all over. The cop’s dead, I’m probably dead, the kid is definitely dead and it’s all over with. WHY DOESN’T ONE OF THESE TWO ASSHOLES DO SOMETHING?

  “Looks good,” said the pig, giving a tiny smile that looked more like he was relieving himself rather than actually pleased. “I just saw you parked over here my last two or three passes down this stretch. Even though you’re off the highway system, abandoned cars always get my attention. Wouldn’t want your property stripped. We get a lot of that around South Sac.”

  Air whistled out of Spurlock’s locked lungs. “Yes sir, thanks for the thought, officer.”He reached out for his papers.

  The cop looked up and made as if to hand over the papers, but halted. For the first time, their eyes met. The cop was balding, tall and slim with broad shoulders. His face was long and looked fortyish. He wore a neat brown mustache that look as though he trimmed it with tweezers.

  Then Spurlock saw it in his eyes: alarm bells had been triggered. Some fucking pig-instinct had just been tripped, and the cop smelled something, something he didn’t like.

  “I would like to take a look in the back, if you don’t mind,” he said.

  Spurlock forced a smile. That was it, then. His face felt dead and rubbery. There was nothing he could do now. He would climb out, hopefully behind him, then pull the. 22 and spray every bullet he had into him. He realized numbly that it would be his first Murder One. He had often wondered when it would come.

  “It’s locked, sir, I’ll just have to open it for you,” he said. He reached down to the door latch and popped it open. The cop back up a step automatically.

  “Don’t forget your keys,” said the cop.

  “Huh? Oh, right,” Spurlock said, giving a little nervous laugh. He turned back to grab the keys dangling in the ignition. Squirt-squirt-squirt, he thought, that’s all there was to it. He knew he would have to do it right away, without hesitating or hoping to get out of it. He turned back with the keys and sure enough, the cop had his back turned. He was talking into the radio mike that he kept clipped to his shoulder.

  The little steel squirt gun was so tiny Spurlock could hide it neatly in his palm. He did so now as he closed the van door behind him. The cop was walking away, and Spurlock felt a moment of panic; he wanted to be at point-blank range.

  Suddenly, the cop stopped speaking into his radio and turned back to Spurlock. “I’ve got an assistance call,” he said, “drive safe.”

  And it was over, just like that. He trotted back to his black-and-white and drove off. Spurlock was left rubbing his fingers nervously along the barrel of his little black squirt gun.

  “I’ve got to get rid of this kid,” he said to no one.

  … 55 Hours and Counting…

  Ray spotted Magic in a crowded cafe. He signaled her quietly, asking for a private conversation. Magic hesitated, then touched the mouse and the connection was made. The two of them conversed not in a physical environment, but rather in a chatroom. Nocarrier was a social networking site full of chatrooms, blogs and message boards, now slowed down by the choked internet, but still active. The name of the site caused many to smile when they read it. An inside joke, NoCarrier was the error message one used to get all too often when your personal computer tried to connect across the phone system to another computer and failed. He had found the boards that specialized in university socializing, figuring that Nog had recommended the site for this reason. Someone at the university had to know something.

  Physically, Ray sat in a quiet corner of a hotel lobby. He had finally found one that had unprotected free wireless service. His greatest fear was that someone would recognize him. As a college professor in a college town, he was someone that was easily recognized by a lot of people. He had decided to set up camp in the stuffiest, most expensive hotel in town because students, as a general rule, didn’t have the money or the inclination to go there. Elderly couples, bent on golfing their way through retirement and business people who checked their watches constantly were the only patrons in sight. Hotels often had outlets as well. He’d spent the morning setting up in a quiet conference alcove of the Red Lyon Inn’s lobby. Using his prepaid cellular for the internet connection, he felt he had the perfect spot for his work. He had purchased one of the all-you-can-eat for a month phone cards.

  Ray couldn’t help but smile at the number of users logged onto NoCarrier. Clearly, the slowdown of the internet hadn’t caused people to stop chatting and ranting. They were all addicted to the web and would keep playing until the Titanic hit the bottom, he supposed.

  As the connection came up, he saw that Magic was typing already.

  You don’t fool around, do you Dr. Vance? appeared on his screen.

  What do you mean? he typed.

  The virus, sir! came the reply. Just look at the news! Company stocks are tanking. Websites are shutting down. All because you personally killed the internet. I’m impressed.

  Don’t be. I didn’t do it.

  (*o*)/ Of course not. As you say, sir.

  Ray sighed to himself. He supposed he was an obvious suspect. Nog had done his work well.

  Look, he typed, I didn’t do it and what’s more I know who did.

  Okay, okay, I’ll suspend my disbelief and hero worship for the moment. Why did you ask to talk to me? Just to give me the thrill of a net conversation with a fugitive felon?

  First, let me ask you this: have you ever put together a virus?

  Not a fair question!

  It’s totally fair. You asked me the same thing in class, remember?

  There was a pause. Ray wondered what kind of squirming was going on at the other end of the line.

  Wait a minute. Don’t tell me you’ve got the feds there and now you’re fishing for a confession! I’m just a grad-student, remember.

  Exactly, typed Ray. You’re a computer science grad-student. Suspect number One-A. And be serious, there aren’t any feds in the country that could sit still while I type away online to prove my innocence. I think they’d all sooner break my fingers.

  There was another pause, then, Sure, so I’ve dabbled in the black arts. Can I still be a jedi?

  Ray breathed deeply. He had contacted the right woman. He needed a hacker in his corner. The truth about technology was that the older, more experienced individual wasn’t the best. Computer scientists were more like gymnasts than normal, staid engineering-types. An older person could still be hot and produce solid work, but it was part of the nature of humans that you stopped wanting to learn a thousand new things every day about when you turned thirty. Families, daily pursuits, just having a life, all these things prevented older people from being the best techies. The true stars were almost always young, usually in their early twenties. Unattached people with too much in the way of brains and curiosity seemed to do the best. They lived on the net, poked into every forgotten crevice of their machines, were fascinated and excited by every newly developed gizmo. Ray had lost that edge about five years ago, and he knew it.

  As long as you repent, Leia, you will be anointed, he typed.

  So, what would you need from this newly unveiled amateur hacker?

  First, I need a better handle on this system. I’m in as an unqualified user right now, and the sysop will probably take a week or two to knock me up to getting my own signature on the boards. I want full permissions. I want to run the place.

  Hmm. A tough one with the current demand, but I happen to know one of the superuser account names: foghorn.

  All lower case?

  Yes.

  What’s the password?

  I’ll give you three guesses…

  Ray frowned for a mo
ment, then smiled. Leghorn? he typed.

  You got it in one! came the reply. I guess I was never really good at security. Can I do anything else for you?

  I want to eavesdrop. I want to be a fly on an electronic wall.

  Ah, I have just the thing for you.

  Even as he watched, the data began to flow across the wires to be copied down onto his hard disk. Something came up to confirm he wanted to install it. He did. Within a minute Ray had downloaded a chunk of software that was illegal to possess, create or transmit.

  “Chalk up a few more felonies for my side,” he muttered aloud.

  When the transmission ended, the screen shifted back to chat mode.

  Thanks, Magic, he typed.

  You’re welcome. I hope you find your kid.

  You know about that?

  All the hackers out here are rooting for you… At least, those who don’t make you out as the anti-christ, that is. You’re a hot topic in every working chat room, Vance. I’m something of a celebrity just by being associated with you.

  I had no idea. I’ve got to go now.

  By the way, Ray, what’s going to happen to my grade in your class if you’re in the back of a squad car?

  Ray snorted.

  Your A is so solid it won’t matter if I go to the chair.

  The last thing she typed was just one word:

  Careful.

  Then she broke the connection. Ray sat staring at the screen for a moment, then he blinked and roused himself to action. He had a lot of work to do.

  … 54 Hours and Counting…

  Agents Vasquez and Johansen drove up and parked in front of the Vance residence. She looked at the house and thought about what had happened to this perfectly normal-looking family over the last few days.

  “You know, if Vance is innocent, life’s been giving him a pretty hard time lately.”

  “Second thoughts?” asked Johansen. His hands still gripped the steering wheel. By unspoken tradition, she almost always let him drive. It was similar to the paying at restaurants thing, a sensible move that made them less conspicuous and simultaneously saved his masculinity.