by V. B. Larson
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 blinki
ng 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.
“You’ll have to leave now, sir,” she said.
Ray nodded, gathered up his equipment, and walked out into the fading light of day with a stream of sleepy, homeless men.
… 45 Hours and Counting…
There were more National Security staffers hanging around now at the operation’s makeshift headquarters. They had taken up temporary residence in the Yolo county meeting hall. There wasn’t even a school district board meeting until next week, so the space was available. Phones, desks and grim-faced suits had sprouted seemingly from the very walls themselves. There were even some people around from the California State Emergency office in Sacramento. That made her smile, this was no earthquake or flood, but the feeling in the air was similar.
“You know what gets me?” asked Johansen, moving up behind her. He was always at her side, like a big, protective shadow.
“How quickly we’ve lost control of this investigation?”
“No, that’s not surprising, really. What gets me is how quickly the net has become indispensable to this world of ours. It’s part of the infrastructure of our nation now, like the highways or the phone system.”
She nodded slowly. “It’s like some giant has come along and kicked over an anthill.”
Then some of the higher-ups in the more expensive suits noticed them. Italian shoes clacked on the tile as they approached. Introductions were made and a quick briefing was asked for, which she delivered. Gray heads nodded in approval of her play with Sarah Vance. Vasquez could tell that they were being given free rein for now, but if things didn’t move quickly enough, they would be tossed aside in an instant.
Less than a hour later they were walking out into the fresh spring evening. Everything was hot and still. The Delta breezes that normally cooled the region at night were peculiarly absent. The trees stood motionless. Only the chirruping insects seemed happy and full of life.
She looked down at the writ in her hands. She hefted it, then put it into her purse. Beside it was a letter, giving her written permission to investigate the disappearance of Vance, Justin, minor age 6.
“That was really something, wasn’t it?” she asked Johansen.
“The powers that be have taken notice of us lowly mortals,” he replied.
“Wiretap warrants are supposed to be hard to get. And they didn’t even balk at giving us the missing persons case.”
“Not today. There’s a blue-light special in aisle five.”
“You know, I think that if we had gone in there with a request to tap the whole block, we would have gotten it without even a raised eyebrow.”
Johansen nodded as they reached the car. “Some of those guys have a judge in each pocket.”
She looked at him sharply, not liking that kind of talk. “Let’s hope that you’re wrong about that.”
He shrugged and they climbed into the car.
… 44 Hours and Counting…
“Just burying the kid’s body would’ve been a lot easier,” muttered Spurlock to himself. He hadn’t worked so hard since the joint. Come to think of it, the joint had been less work than this.
Santa had left the backhoe right where he said it would be. The keys were in it, and there were almond trees everywhere, providing cover. Spurlock had learned to operate these things almost ten years ago when he had tried a rare spurt of honest work. The trend hadn’t lasted, but the skill was still there. It took him only a minute or two to prime the old engine and fire it up. Working the levers carefully, he began to dig. With less than another hour’s work, he would have a hole big enough to bury the van.
The big diesel grunted and strained, farting so much blue smoke that the cloud reached forward into the bright cones lit up by the headlights. Black-trunked almond trees stood in guardian rows, and somehow they made Spurlock feel more at ease, more hidden. Overhead, a green canopy covered his deeds from the prying eyes of the stars.
It was a warm spring night that hinted of the blazing Central Valley summer that was to come. The air was absolutely still. He sweated over the controls, wiping his forehead often with a filthy red bandana he’d found tied to the steering wheel. He’d learned all too well why the bandana was there. Each time he wiped he also drank a shot from his squirt-bottle of water. The van was parked on the side of the road, about a hundred yards behind him. Laying beside the growing wound in the earth were two eight-foot lengths of white PVC pipe and a giant roll of duct tape. All he had to do was drive the van into the hole, put the PVC pipe through the little pop-up dome on the top of the van, then bury the whole fucker. The pipe would provide fresh air and allow him to drop food into the van. The duct tape was to seal the pipe so dirt wouldn’t fill the van’s interior.
Spurlock had gotten this idea from an old crime he had read about back in the early eighties. Down in the southern half of the Valley, in a town called Chowchilla, some players had hi-jacked an entire school bus loaded with kids and buried the lot of them in a hole for safe-keeping. They had demanded a ransom, but had eventually blown it and gotten caught. The crime had always impressed him with its simplicity and sheer balls. Spurlock, of course, had no intentions of demanding a ransom. All he wanted was to get the kid out of his hair for awhile so he could move without being hampered.
Running the big scoop up the side of the hole to widen it, he heard the engine strain and rev-up as something resisted the blade. Another big root, he figured. The root snapped and the whol
e rig rocked a bit. A shower of almonds and twigs fell from the disturbed tree, pelting the cab and Spurlock in discriminately.
“The crazy shit I go through to avoid Murder One,” complained Spurlock, scowling back toward the van. He dragged the filthy bandana across his forehead again and lowered the scoop for another bite of earth.
… 43 Hours and Counting…
Brenda sucked in her breath suddenly and gave little yelp of surprise and fear.
“It’s okay, Brenda,” Ray whispered into her ear. “It’s just me.”
He felt her relax, but only slightly. He had grabbed her from behind in the dimly lit hallway just outside of the women’s restroom. He felt bad about the tactics, but he couldn’t chance running into anyone else.
“I need your help again, Brenda.”
He felt her relax further as the shock subsided. Then she turned on him. “If you ever try that James Bond shit on me again, you asshole, I’ll ram my knee so far up your crouch you’ll need a kidney transplant!” she hissed at him.
Ray chuckled and look sheepish. “Sorry to scare you, Brenda,” he said. Despite himself, he smiled. It was good to see a familiar face again. Brenda, having a flash of anger, was a very familiar sight. Somehow, it made things feel almost normal again.
“Asshole,” she muttered, “you shouldn’t have come, Ray.”
“Why not?”
She tilted her head toward the glass doors at the end of the hall, indicating the parking lot beyond. “They still come by here every few hours, checking for you.”
“Look, Brenda,” he began, “I haven’t got time to explain it all, but need your help one more time.”
She frowned and turned away from him. She headed toward the lab. Her keys jangled in her hand. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to work in the lab.”
“Yeah.”
She stopped and looked back at him, eyebrows raised. “So that’s it, eh? Just shut old Brenda out? What insanity are you up to now?”