Hack

by Peter Wrenshall

  I looked at Grace. Grace with her scars, and her criminal parents. Inside the nearby cafeteria, I could see a guy and his girlfriend, waiting for a train, eating lunch and talking. They seemed happy and normal. They weren’t trying to outsmart anyone.

  They weren’t trying to change the past.

  “Don’t do it, David,” Grace said. “Even if you do win, you’ll still lose. You’re not like them. That’s why I like you. You can’t fool the police. My dad thought that he could do it. But they got him all the same.”

  “It’s already done,” I said.

  “Where are the FBI, then?”

  “It’s . . . I just want to have a normal life. With you. We could watch movies, eat pizza, and go to computer conventions. I just want to be normal. But what Knight did to me—”

  “Don’t do it, David. Don’t live in the past. It always catches up with you.”

  Even though I had now defeated Knight, it somehow meant nothing to me. But what Grace was saying did.

  I used the station’s wireless service—I actually paid, for a change—to remove the Trojan. “It’s done,” I said.

  We continued sitting on the platform in the cold morning air, waiting for the train back to Elmwood.

  “Could you spare some money, sir?” asked a voice. ‘Sir’—people call you

  ‘sir’ when you’re wearing a suit.

  “No, sorry,” I said.

  I looked up. It wasn’t the drunk I had seen before. It was another guy holding a sign that read “I want to work.”

  “Is that true?” I said, nodding at the tatty cardboard he was holding.

  “Yes. I want to work.”

  “Then why don’t you get a job?” It was delivered as blunt as it sounds.

  “They took my house,” he said sadly. “They took everything. I just want to get back on my feet. I haven’t touched a drink in a whole month. I lost my wife, my children, everything. I want a fresh start.”

  The train was clanking into the station. “Here,” I said as I stood up. I handed him the NeoTek notebook. “Hold this by the bottom.”

  I quickly popped it open, and started running a program to scrub away all of my hacking scripts as well as any other traces of my activities on the notebook.

  While he was still holding the computer, looking somewhat baffled, I grabbed Grace by the hand and started walking toward the train.

  The guy called out, “Hey, mister, your computer!”

  “It’s yours now,” I called back to him. “You should get four hundred for that.

  Don’t take less than three.”

  “But it’s yours!” he protested, not quite believing.

  86

  “I don’t need it anymore.”

  Grace and I got on the train.

  Back in Elmwood, we grabbed a taxi at the train station.

  The taxi stopped at the end of Grace’s street.

  “Can I see you tomorrow?” I asked.

  “Yes. I’d like that,” she said, moving closer to me.

  “I’ll work something out.”

  We kissed, for the first time. I then turned and started off back to the bus station, where my old clothes and my old life were waiting for me.

  But in a way, I felt like a new life was also waiting for me.

  87

  Chapter 19

  I called Hannah.

  “Mom, I won’t be in for dinner. I’ve got to meet a friend.”

  “Okay, David, but you should eat something.”

  “Yeah, I will. I’ll talk to you later.”

  I hoped that veiled promise would postpone her curiosity until I got home.

  “Well, enjoy yourself.”

  “I

  will.”

  “Call me when you want to come home.”

  “I’ll only be a few hours.”

  I got out of the cab and walked over to the coffee shop. I looked at my watch.

  It was 6:45. I still had fifteen minutes before meeting Zaqarwi and Malik, and I wanted to be alone to think.

  Instead of going into the coffee shop, I went into the video store at the entrance, and sat down, my mind whirling with thoughts of Grace, and of the future. I needed to think, but had no time. As soon as Malik made the offer, I would be going home. There would be no chance to do anything.

  Was I right to be thinking about going away with Grace? All of a sudden, obstacles and questions started to present themselves.

  How serious was Grace? I hadn’t expected her to elope with some man she hardly knew. But I knew that I wanted to be with her. I could work as a programmer; but what would Grace do? And would she be happy doing it?

  The biggest question was: would it last? I knew from watching my mother that relationships built rapidly rarely stayed the course. They burned out. Was I making the mistake I had always sought to avoid? But how would that be different if I had money, places to go, things to do, a happy, exciting life? I had my stash, a list of backdoors, user accounts, and systems that I could use to get enough money to live with Grace. I had a way into a bank, but how much money would I steal? And did I want to make a real criminal of myself? I never thought of myself as a criminal; I had never taken any money from anyone. But now I had an impossible situation.

  As I sat in the video store, trying to clear my mind, and staring off into the distance, something caught my eye. A car pulled up in front of the entrance, and a guy got out. I recognized Bennell, one of Zaqarwi’s crew. For a moment, he stood looking at the building. Then he looked at his watch. Instead of walking into the coffee shop, he made his way around the side of the building and disappeared out of sight.

  I went back out of the bookstore, looking over at the coffee shop as I did, to make sure that Zaqarwi hadn’t seen me. I could afford to be a few minutes late. I quickly made my way to the side of the building, and then suddenly stopped.

  The shop had a rear parking lot, and there, leaning into the window of a large black Ford, was Bennell. He was talking to someone. In the dimming light, I couldn’t fully see the driver of the car. He moved behind a row of bushes that lined the sidewalk. I edged slowly closer to the car. The shadows of the twilight were darkening the glass, and though I had edged further, I could still not make out the driver’s face—only the outline of a man.

  I moved closer, up to the edge of the bushes. I tried to focus my eyes.

  Suddenly, Bennell leaned back, and I saw who he had been talking to. It was Philips.

  I pulled back behind the bushes quickly, and tried to stop my heart from banging. What is going on? Was Bennell working for Philips, too? Or was Philips using Bennell to watch me? What was Philips doing here? Whatever it was, it meant 88

  trouble for me. It meant that in some way Philips was not on the level. Across the road, three young men in sports clothes were getting into a truck, laughing and talking loudly. Their shirts had football emblems on them. I ran over to the truck.

  “I’ll give you fifty dollars for a ride.”

  “What?” said one of the men.

  “I need a lift. Right now.” I held out the fifty-dollar bill.

  One of the men laughed, and said, “Get dead, freak.”

  “Wait,” said the driver. “Fifty? Where to?”

  I was dropped off at the end of Grace’s block, and I quickly made my way to her house. Grace’s stepfather’s car was in the driveway. I reached for my mobile phone, but suddenly realized that I didn’t even have Grace’s phone number. I felt stupid. How could I have made such a mistake? That’s the first thing that a regular guy does when he meets a girl. But I wasn’t a regular guy. I was anything but regular.

  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 hous
e, 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.

  89

  Chapter 20

  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?

  91

  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.

  92

  Chapter 21

  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 instan
tly 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.”