by B. V. Larson
At least the water keeps the dust down, he thought to himself. He wanted to chuckle, but that might be a fatal move.
Lifting his legs together like a mermaid in a bad movie, he kicked the side of the trunk three times. He had found a spot, through a night of experimentation, that was bowed and hollow like a drum. It made a loud sound that probably annoyed a few crows in the orchard, but had little other effect. Still, it was all he could do.
Then he lay back in the cool water that covered much of his body now. His greatest regret was that he had been unable to help his son.
Another few minutes passed. His body grew adjusted to the cool water and he floated in it somewhat. Soon, however, there would be no space to breathe between the surface of the water and the carpeted floor of the overturned Lincoln’s trunk, which now formed the ceiling of his coffin.
He kicked again, and this time the sound was greatly muffled. The water had risen to where it was dampening any sound he could make. That, almost more than anything, made him give up. If no one could possibly hear him, then he was truly doomed.
He listened to the water as it lapped and gurgled over and around the car. Distantly, he could hear the drone of the big pump house up on the bank nearby. It grew even darker in his prison as the light from outside was cut off. He thought it would be even more grim if the water rose just high enough to cut off his air supply—but not enough to drown him. He wondered if he could suck in a breath from the cracks in the wheel wells.
He wanted to do something—anything. Just to wait calmly for death was maddening. He decided to savor his last moments of life with a farewell drink. At least he need not die thirsty. He squirmed to one side a bit and sucked in a refreshing draught of cool, gritty water. It tasted like the coldest beer on the hottest day of his life.
He slipped and went in too deeply. For a panicky second, he became that silver slug, thrashing its last in the swimming pool.
Then he had control of himself again. He grunted and heaved himself safely onto his back again. An absurd rush of pride coursed through him as he licked at his tape-burned lips. He had gotten a drink and managed to cheat death for another few minutes. He felt an odd elation at the success. Even though it was hopeless, he kicked the trunk wall again. The sound was that of a great bell tolling at the bottom of the sea.
When he was done kicking, he lay back in the frothing water, sucking air deeply, but it seemed that he couldn’t get enough. He felt exhausted all of a sudden. Could he be running out of air? Panic gripped him, and he kicked more.
This was it, he felt sure. Things were quieter now, sounds were more muffled. He sensed that the water had crested over the top of the car, that he was surviving in an air pocket that couldn’t last as the water deepened further and the oxygen depleted.
He lost himself to panic for a time. He kicked in a frenzy at the trunk wall. He gasped for air, almost blacked out, then felt sick and faint. He fought not to vomit and drown ignobly in his own puke.
He fell back to rest, at the point of exhaustion. It was then that he noticed the water seemed a bit lower than before. He waited, trying to control his gulping of the air. It was so hard to tell what was going on in his cold dark tomb. Several minutes passed, and then a wonderful thing happened.
The lights went back on in the trunk. Daylight shimmied a finger of greenish, reflective light into the trunk again. He would have whooped if he could have. Then he listened closely, but realized he couldn’t hear the pump anymore. It had been shut off.
He relaxed and all but drifted off into an exhausted slumber. Something kept him awake though, something nagged at him.
What was it?
Then it came to him. Who had shut off the pump?
Adrenalin shot through him. It could be anyone. It could be Ingles, coming back after drowning him to check on the status of the job. It could be Farmer John, just noticing the white Lincoln wallowing in his back forty.
He had to take the chance.
Finding the sweet spot on the trunk wall again, he began to beat it like a drum.
. . . 7 Hours and Counting . . .
Ray heard the most lovely of sounds: muffled voices mixed with splashing. Someone was coming. Someone had heard. Would it be Ingles? Would it be Farmer John? He thought of remaining quiet, but that would be crazy. He had to take this chance to get free. Another might never come.
He kicked the wall of the trunk again. This time the voices cried out to one another. He was sure that he had been heard. He lay back and relaxed as the water slowly drained from the trunk. It felt good to know that he would see the sun again—at least briefly.
Someone knocked on the trunk lid. He tried to cry out, but only a muffled moaning fluttered his lips. He kicked again. This was a good sign. Ingles wouldn’t have knocked, knowing that he was in there.
There was a long delay. Perhaps a minute, perhaps five. He was impatient. Voices spoke to him, but he couldn’t make out the words through the layers of metal and tape.
Then suddenly, without warning, the trunk lid fell open and he was rolled out into the canal. There was only about two feet of water in the bottom of the canal, but it was more than enough to cover his head. He thrashed about at the feet of his rescuers, drowning.
He was grabbed like a fish in two powerful hands and hoisted up out of the water.
“He’s alive anyway,” said a deep male voice, the owner of the hands that roughly held him upright.
“Who is it?” asked a female voice.
A face came into his limited field of view. The face was wreathed with concern and surprise. Ray recognized her: it was that she-bitch who had chased him for days now—Agent Vasquez.
Right then Ray thought she was the prettiest woman in the world. His cheeks strained to grin against layers of silver tape.
#
“Vance!” said Vasquez in some surprise as they worked and cut the tape away from his body. They had decided to remove it right there in the canal, before hoisting him out. Even Johansen felt that Ray was too great a burden to carry up the slippery wet walls wearing leather-soled shoes. Good shoes that had been ruined, along with a good suit, by the canal water.
“Should we call in an ambulance?” she asked. Ray struggled to answer, but the tape around his mouth still restrained him.
Soon, his mouth was free. “I don’t need an ambulance, I don’t think. What I need is help in finding my son. Ingles might have left some clue in the house. Justin might even be on the property somewhere.”
Vasquez and Johansen exchanged glances.
“Ah!” said Ray. “Still trying to figure out how I taped myself up and threw myself to the bottom of a canal, eh?”
“It’s not that,” said Vasquez. “Ingles is dead. His body was discovered out along the main road.”
“Shit,” said Ray dully. His resurgent hopes of finding Justin fell greatly. “What about Nog and the other guy?”
Johansen jerked his head toward the front of the car as he worked to free Ray’s upper body. Ray craned his neck to follow the gesture. Nog’s flabby dead arm floated from the driver’s side window. Ray wanted to puke all over again when he thought he had been greedily drinking the canal water directly downstream from poor Nog’s body.
“Poor bastard,” he said. “He tried to save me, you know. Almost killed me in the process, of course, but still... He tried to help.”
“What other guy?” asked Vasquez.
“What?”
“You said, ‘Nog and that other guy.’”
“Oh, yes,” said Ray. “There was a third man. I never saw his face.”
“Do you know his name?”
“Um. No, I don’t think so. But maybe I could recognize his voice if I heard it again.”
“Great,” said Vasquez. “Look, Dr. Vance. You’ve been less than fully up front with us all along.”She began to question him on recent events, and he answered as best he could. He was heartened to see the believing look in her eyes. She might not have liked his story, but she
was willing to believe him now.
“I must admit that Nog now seems like an even more likely suspect than you in the virus case,” she concluded.
Johansen was working on his legs now, and with his free, numb hands, Ray tried to help.
“So, am I under arrest or what? I’ll cooperate in any way that I can. All I want to do is find my son, and you can see that I’ve come close. Will you help me?” he asked, without much hope. Surely they would at least want to drag him to a cell. He had resisted arrest too long and there were simply too many unexplained bodies around.
Vasquez and Johansen glanced at one another. “It is true, there are many mysteries here, with only your story to go on... for now,” she said. “Any thinking agent would drag you back to a cell without a qualm.”
“But, we do need your help with our case,” added Johansen.
“With the virus?”
“That would be nice, but that’s not our case any longer,” said Vasquez. “We were—relieved from that case. Our case now is the search for your son.”
Ray’s eyes got big and he grinned as he worked one foot free of the sticky mass of tape. “I can’t tell you how good it feels to be out of that damned tape.”
He looked from one to the other with a new perspective. “You’ve got Justin’s case?”
“Yes, your wife asked that we take it on,” smiled Vasquez.
Soon, they were all struggling up the canal embankment. Johansen helped Ray, who could hardly walk after spending a night with his legs taped together.
Vasquez slipped even though she was wearing flats. Johansen darted a hand down to steady her. “You okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” she said.
When they all reached the top, they took a moment to dust themselves off and strip the last bits of tape from Ray.
“I think the key angle is to find this third man,” said Johansen.
“Right, but there is another possible answer,” said Ray.
“What?”
“Ingles told me he sent me an e-mail message. A message that would release my boy.”
Vasquez frowned at that. “I don’t know. Even if that message was sent, the entire internet is failing. I doubt it could have been delivered.”
Ray stared at her. The enormity of what she had just said sunk in. Had Nog really managed to do it? He hardly noticed as Johansen snapped a set of handcuffs on his wrists.
. . . 6 Hours and Counting . . .
“Can we at least try Ingles’ machine?” asked Ray.
Vasquez nodded, following his logic. “Right. Even if the message was lost on the net, a copy should still be on his hard drive.”
“As long as he didn’t erase it,” added Johansen.
“All right,” sighed Vasquez. “Look Vance, I’ll give you an hour, then we have to take you in. There have been two murders and what looks like a third. Johansen, phone in for back-up would you? Someone has to get Nog and that car out of that canal and do all the forensics on it.”
Johansen nodded and snapped open his phone. They all climbed into their car and drove down the dirt road toward the house.
“The virus is still raging on the net then?” asked Ray.
“Nothing seems to stop it. And if you’re right, and the author is now smashed in the bottom of the canal, then it’s going to take even longer to piece together a solution. The damned thing keeps changing its profile. It’s like nothing we’ve ever seen.”
“Nog was truly a genius,” agreed Ray. “He told me something of his work before he died.”He related to her what Nog had told him about the self-evolving software he had written.
“If it’s true, then he’s created a new nightmare we’ve never encountered before,” said Vasquez thoughtfully. “And I, for one, am ready to believe it. There will be a number of federal agencies that will want that source code. We’ll have to put in some special court orders concerning national security issues on Nog’s computers.”
“That’s Verr’s case now,” said Johansen gently.
“We’ll ask for the court orders anyway,” snapped Vasquez. “No one will bitch if we help make sure no foreign power gets their hands on this bomb.”
Johansen nodded without smiling.
Vasquez sighed. “Sorry for snapping,” she said without looking at him. Johansen nodded again and visibly relaxed.
From his vantage point in the back seat, Ray slid his eyes from one of them to the other. He wondered vaguely about their relationship. They seemed closer somehow, more concerned.
When they reached the house they all got out of the car. Johansen half-lifted Ray out of the backseat and the doors crumped behind them. Ray’s legs were so stiff from his ordeal that he could barely walk.
“I’m really grateful that you guys are giving me this chance,” said Ray. “I realize that it must not be easy for you.”
“We should have already gone through Ingles machine,” said Vasquez.
“Won’t Verr be pissed if we do it now?” asked Johansen.
“It’s a valid lead in both cases. Including the one we’re on now,” she said.
“He’ll still be pissed. I bet he’ll report it.”
“Like I said: Screw him,” replied Vasquez with a smile.
“You two will feel and look good if this somehow leads to my son’s freedom,” said Ray. He felt the moment of hesitation and discomfort that his words caused them. He could tell they already counted Justin as dead and gone. Well, he thought to himself, screw them too.
Still in a fog of uncomfortable silence, they entered and the screen door slammed shut behind them. The sound made them all jump a bit. Ray shuffled into the den, heading for Ingles’ computer. He paused when he got there and gestured to Johansen impatiently with his cuffed wrists. Johansen looked at Vasquez, who nodded. He produced a key and unlocked one of the cuffs, swung it around Ray’s body and cuffed it in front of him.
“Wha—” said Ray, then he grimaced and nodded at the agent. Best not to look this gift-horse in the mouth. He could still type this way. That should be all he needed.
The first problem presented itself immediately: The system was passworded. Everything was password-protected, including the BIOS setup in CMOS, the hard disk booting process, and doubtlessly, the network connection and any sensitive files on the hard disk. Ray sighed.
“This will take a minute. Any suggestions?”
Vasquez looked over his shoulder. The BIOS setup password was first. If they could get into that, they could cause the system to boot from an external drive and thereby bypass the hard drive’s boot-up password altogether.
Together, they tried all the obvious ones: just hitting the enter key, typing: “password”, and “santa”.
“Nothing,” said Ray. “Let’s short the battery on the motherboard.”
“That can be dangerous,” cautioned Vasquez.
“Look, if my son is still alive somewhere, he can’t last long with Ingles’ and the rest dead. We have a big time factor here.”
She nodded. They turned the system off, removed the back of the computer and touched a screwdriver to the battery posts on the motherboard. This created a short circuit and within a few seconds blanked the computer’s CMOS chips. Essentially, the computer “forgot” its password and setup.
They then put it back together, fired it up and were able to set the machine up to their liking. Booting on an external drive, they bypassed the boot-up password on the hard disk. Next, they began searching the hard disk for files. Vasquez always carried a boot drive with a set of excellent hacker’s utilities for just such a purpose. Ray could see that she was anxious to take his place and work it herself. It was what he had been hoping for.
“Look,” he said after a few minutes of searching. “I’m feeling a bit sick.” The truth was that he could barely hang onto a thread of thought.
“I’ll bet,” chuckled Johansen. “After a night in that trunk. How long since you ate anything?”
“More than a day. And that was just
Nog’s stale snacks. Too bad he didn’t keep a stash in the trunk.”
“I know my search utilities better than you do, anyway,” said Vasquez, sliding into his place as he staggered out of the chair. She bent forward with a look of concentration.
Ray smiled and Johansen caught him. They exchanged knowing glances. She had taken over the legwork on this one. Johansen led him into Ingles’ kitchen and they raided the place for a quick snack. They made what his wife Sarah would have referred to as “bachelor sandwiches”. Two pieces of bread and four slices of lunchmeat, slapped together. No condiments, or any other sissy stuff. It was Spartan fare, Ray reflected, but filling.
“Just don’t tell anyone that we did this,” said Johansen as they wolfed down stolen sandwiches.
“This bastard ruined my life. The least I can do is eat some of his food,” muttered Ray bitterly. He decided he almost liked Johansen. The man could certainly eat. No less than four wads of bread and meat vanished into his broad mouth.
After a few minutes, they went back into the den to hover over Vasquez’s shoulder. “What have you got?” asked Ray.
“There was nothing in the e-mail directory of any value—except for one zip file that I’m trying to get into.”
Ray examined the screen. There appeared to be a fairly large compressed file in the e-mail directory. It was unreadable until the compression process was reversed. The problem was that there was yet another password attached to this particular file. This password could not easily be bypassed.
Again and again they tried one password after another. The process was known as “hacking”. Finally, after about half an hour, Ray watched as Vasquez typed in the password: “Sarah”.
Immediately, data spewed out on the screen. Ray blinked in alarm. What were the implications of that password? How had she known?
“My wife’s name?” he asked aloud.
Vasquez didn’t look at him. “This message looks good. It appears to have the word Santa in it.”
“Sarah was the password?” he demanded. “Why?”
“Look, Dr. Vance,” said Vasquez. “If you’re right, we need every second to work on finding your son.”