B Larson - Spyware

Things weren’t so simple, however. Somewhere, in the darkest corner of his mind, an annoying, chattering monkey would not be quelled, would not be silenced so easily. What if she caused all this? screamed the monkey. What if your precious wife has been a traitor? What if she has brought about all this hellish misfortune upon her family? What then, Dr. Raymond Vance?

Vasquez was saying something. She sounded excited. Ray blinked and tried to focus. “What?” he asked.

“There’s a letter here. A letter to you,” she said. “It says something about buried treasure. And about a man named Spurlock.”

“Buried treasure?” asked Ray. Even as he worked to read the lengthy note, a popping sound came from the driveway as gravel spit from beneath rolling tires. Several cars pulled up. Moments later a tall black man in a dark coat strode into the house with the air of a father that has discovered a pack of naughty children. Behind him came his partner and four sheriff’s deputies in kakhi uniforms.

He lifted a finger and extended it to the length of his very long arm. He aimed the finger like a pistol at the computer they all huddled around.

“Get away from that machine!” he roared.

Ray turned his head away from the man and continued reading the e-mail message as fast as he could. He would ignore the intruder, he decided. He needed all the information that he could get. His eyes scanned the text as quickly and cleanly as he could. What he read there made his blood run cold.

Behind him, a debate raged.

“We are investigating a federal case here, agent Verr, and we would appreciate your cooperation in this matter,” shouted back agent Vasquez.

“What case?” demanded Verr. “You’ve been removed from this case, and now you’re interfering in my investigation. You’re tampering and possibly destroying valuable evidence, Vasquez!”

“We are investigating a missing person’s case, namely that of Justin Vance, Dr. Vance’s son.”

Even though he was reading and ignoring, Ray had to admire the hint of triumph in her voice.

“Vance’s kid?” Verr’s face twisted into a scowl with deeper furrows than usual. “How the hell did you swing that?”

“The same way that you managed to steal our case in the first place, I imagine.”

Verr ignored the jibe and seemed to notice Ray for the first time. “You mean to tell me this is Vance? My prime suspect for homicide, international computer vandalism and a list of other crimes is just sitting here, doing as he pleases with evidence that is doubtless key to his conviction?”

“No, sir-” she began.

“Have you lost your mind, Vasquez?” demanded Verr.

“As I said, we are investigating a federal case, and I would appreciate your cooperation.”

Verr held up one finger to silence her. He snapped open his cell phone and glared as he punched in a string of numbers. “Thirty seconds. Within thirty seconds, I’ll have you out of here, Vasquez.”

He began talking quickly into his phone. The room was now crowded with men in uniforms looking uncertain and uncomfortable.

Vasquez squeezed Ray’s shoulder and whispered into his ear, “Read fast and try to make a back up on the floppy.”

Ray did exactly that, but before he could finish copying the file, a large, long finger reached down and snapped the power off.

“What the hell-” protested Vasquez. Verr handed her the phone with a shit-eating grin.

“I believe your supervisor wishes to have a word with you, agent Vasquez.”

She took the phone with ill-grace. After a few minutes of rolling her eyes and sputtering, she handed the phone back to Verr.

“Come on,” she said over her shoulder to Johansen and Vance. “We’re taking you in, Dr. Vance.”

“Hold it,” said Verr. “I’ll take him back. I want to make sure that he doesn’t take any further detours.”

“He’s my prisoner, and you’ll just have to wait, Verr,” she growled back as they left.

Ray stumbled through the crowded room of unsmiling faces. They all thought him a murderer and a vandal of unprecedented proportions, but it didn’t matter. All he could think of was what he had read on Ingles’ computer screen.

He told them almost immediately about the bomb. He wasn’t sure exactly when it would go off, but he knew it would be soon and it would be bad. He found it hard to believe that Nog had built such a thing, and that Ingles’ had sponsored its construction.

It didn’t matter to Ray that the bomb would be a bloodless one. The bomb would cause an enormous amount of economic loss, of course, but that didn’t seem to be the worst of it to Ray. The worst would be the loss of so many thousands, millions-even billions of hours of effort on the part of so many people.

The web represents an incredible amount of labor. Hard, intense labor performed by those who lovingly craft images and ideas to present to the world in an artistic, creative effort at communication. A million souls had been lovingly laid bare on the net. With a cold explosion of electrons and magnetics, they would soon be demolished.

In addition to that, more would be destroyed when the bomb went off. Not only the online universe would burn, not only the internet, but everything else created by millions of people across the globe on every computer that was tainted by an evil touch. Every picture painted by a child with a mouse, every love-letter typed and saved, every novel, checking account balance, tax return and favorite saved game.

All of it gone in a cold, silent flash.

Companies would fold. Banks would likely close in the next few weeks. Stocks would plummet further. It was quite possible that this single event could trigger a recession, even a worldwide depression.

He told them about the bomb, and he told them about his son. For his son, he had learned, was the buried treasure that Ingles, in his twisted way, had written to him about.

And why had he done it all? Ray thought. For the love of my wife, Sarah? Ray shook his head and mumbled aloud. He snorted in disbelief, ignoring the looks and raised eyebrows of the investigators that surrounded him. According to the letter, Ingles had been in love with Sarah since before Ray and she had married. He snorted aloud again. The guy had to be as nuts as Van Gough to do all this for unrequited love.

Time and events blurred for Ray. He was finger printed, photographed, cuffed and uncuffed. He was caged, then released into a conference room. Coffee was poured while incredulous agents went over his story. Who were they? he wondered. National Security Exchange Commission? CIA? Pentagon think-tankers? Did it matter?

He saw the fear in their eyes. They didn’t believe him, but they feared his words. They heard, and they knew he might be right, but no one wants to hear words of doom.

Ray lifted a white Styrofoam cup of steamy coffee to his lips with both cuffed hands. He had given up pleading with them for a digging crew. He could see their point, of course. Where would they dig? Ingles owned more than a hundred acres. They could get out dogs, but it would still be a big effort. He couldn’t even say for sure that Ingles’ ranch was the place to look.

They moved him again. This time Vasquez and Johansen were there, following the uniform that led him toward a counter where his personal effects were shoved in an envelope and he was asked a series of inane questions about his blood type and health status. He knew in a vague, uncaring way that he was about to join the scruffy mob that America keeps behind barbed wire and chain link fences.

It was there, in the processing line, that he heard a voice that sounded vaguely familiar. He swiveled his head to the left, to the line of even scruffier-looking individuals that were being released back onto the streets after a long night and morning in jail. There, at the front of the line, was a skinny-looking addict with long hair and many tattoos. A big silver ring came out of a pouch from behind the counter. The addict smiled and slid the ring over his thumb. He smiled and joked with the humorless uniform that gave it to him.