B Larson - Spyware

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 moment, 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.

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.

She sighed. “No, we’ve got to give her both barrels. The sooner Vance gives up the better, whether he’s guilty or not.”

He nodded and popped the door latch. Together they climbed out and approached the house. Neither of them asked the question that hung in the air: if he was innocent, how did it help little Justin’s chances to have his dad sitting in jail until the authorities finally decided to believe him? Vasquez knew from experience that there was no real answer to questions like that. In this business, you couldn’t let it get personal, especially if you really didn’t know the facts. In those cases, you followed the book. That way, you could still live with yourself if things went sour later. There was always the book to blame then.

The door opened before she could knock on it.

“What do you know?” asked Sarah. She looked like she had slept on the couch, or maybe hadn’t slept at all. Her hair, normally worked on for a half-hour or more in the bathroom, looked like an inverted bird’s nest. Gripped in her hand was a cordless phone.

“There’s no news about Justin, Mrs. Vance,” said Vasquez.

“Why are you here then?” she demanded, flicking her eyes from one to the other of them. “Is it about my husband?”

“Yes, Mrs. Vance. May we come in?”

There was a long moment of hesitation. Vasquez knew right away that this wasn’t going to go smoothly. The woman looked at her as one might look at a stray Rottweiler in the park.

“All right. Come in and talk to me.” She walked away into the living room, leaving the door hanging open behind her.

They followed her and Vasquez sat on the couch. Johansen stayed back, looking as if he would rather stand. Vasquez gave him a quick stare. He got the hint and took his spot beside her on the couch.

Sarah flopped into an armchair and fiddled with the TV remote. She didn’t turn it on. In her other hand she still gripped the phone. Vasquez got the immediate impression that she had spent the night in exactly that pose.

“I know this must be a difficult time for you, Mrs. Vance-” Vasquez began.

“Save it,” Sarah interrupted. “What do you want?”

“We want to help your husband.”

Sarah snorted. “Then find Justin. And find the real author of that virus. Have you been following CNN? It’s all over the world now. It’s tearing up files across the globe. All the online stocks are plummeting. Everyone on Wall Street is pissing themselves.”

“Yes, the situation is very serious,” agreed Vasquez. While they had been talking their way past the local sheriff’s office, the National Security Exchange Commission had called them. They were getting involved now as well. They weren’t content to let the FBI and the NSA handle it alone. All of that worried and annoyed Vasquez, who knew that for every additional agency involved, as Johansen had put it earlier, ‘a fresh load of shit would be left on her doorstep every morning’.

“But you know,” said Sarah. “I could care less. All I really want is the family I had a few days ago.”

“I’m hoping we could help you in that arena,” said Vasquez.

“All right,” sighed Sarah. “I’m listening.”

“You’re husband is a fugitive at this point, Mrs. Vance. There is a federal warrant for his arrest-”

“Yes, you showed it to me last night,” Sarah interrupted.

“And we have received information that shall quickly lead to his arrest,” continued Vasquez.

Sarah sat up and frowned at them. “What information? From whom?”

“We almost got him last night, Mrs. Vance. And we have the make and license plate of the car he’s driving,” said Vasquez, watching her reaction closely. She was disappointed by her look of confusion.

“He didn’t have a car last night,” she said. “Did he rent one?” she asked, then stopped quickly.

Johansen stood up suddenly. “Could I use your restroom, ma’m?” he asked Sarah. “We’ve been in the car all day.”