V. Larson - Spyware

Instead, he saw Dr. Ingles. He had his cigarette in his left hand and his right was stuck in the pocket of his jacket, where doubtlessly it tightly clutched his lighter.

“Ingles?”

“Hello, Ray,” said the other. He approached and seemed completely at ease in the presence of a federal fugitive.

“What do you want?”

“Ray, I’m here to help Brenda talk you into giving yourself up,” said Ingles. He fondled his cigarette thoughtfully, and for once Brenda didn’t seem to care. Her eyes were careworn and they were focused solely on him.

Ray cocked his head and sat back from the terminal suddenly. Ingles jumped, just a bit. Seeing that there was no threat in the move, he covered by putting his elbow on the high counter at the lab aide’s station.

“Did you call my colleague for help, Brenda?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “He was here tonight. Before you even came. He seemed to know you were coming here tonight.”

Ray nodded. “You make a habit of knowing my habits, Ingles.”

“It’s part of my personal philosophy to try and predict the behavior of others, Ray. Of course, I’m wrong as often as right, but it always seems to be the cases when I guess correctly that people recall most vividly.”

“Yes, you do seem to have a knack for it,” said Ray. On a hunch, Ray typed a new search command into the system. He hit the enter key and a thousand packets of electronic data flashed all around the country and the world. Some of them went all the way to England and came back, all in the space of thirty seconds or so.

While the machine was still working, Ray turned back to the two of them. They had stepped closer now. Ingles had pulled the lighter out of his pocket, except that it wasn’t a lighter after all.

It was a pistol with a slim black barrel. He held it nonchalantly, the way he usually held a cigarette. It wasn’t aimed directly at Ray, but it wasn’t aimed away from him, either.

Ray nodded coolly. “I see.”

“Yes, well, I thought I should make a citizen’s arrest for the good of society, don’t you know?” said Ingles.

“I understand,” said Ray. He glanced back at the computer screen and nodded again at the results. “You knew I would be here tonight.”

Ingles shrugged. “It was only a hunch.”

“Yes, like the hunch that the FBI would think I released the virus. What did you say? ‘Don’t leave anything out that would look bad later?’ Good advice, as it turned out, but not good enough to clear me. Not by a long shot.”

“I only wish I could have done more,” said Ingles. He smiled, and Ray noted that his teeth were indeed stained yellow by tobacco.

“I’m calling the police,” said Brenda.

Ingles waved her away from the phone with an unlit cigarette. “There’s time enough for that,” he said. “I want to hear what Ray is getting at.”

“‘Remember that ugliness, like beauty, is also in the eyes of the beholder.’” quoted Ray.

Ingles smiled. For the first time, Ray thought to see a glint of the wolf in his intelligent eyes.

“That’s Frost, I believe,” said Ingles.

“Frost?”

“Robert Frost.”

“Ah yes, of course. And what’s your handle, Ingles? I mean on the local campus net?”

“Frosty, they call me,” he said. As he spoke he tapped at his cigarette and lit it. Blue smoke wafted into the lab. Brenda seemed too overwrought to argue about it.

“Because you like Frost?”

“I’ve been known to quote him, from time to time,” replied Ingles evenly. “But there’s nothing unusual about that, after all, I am an English Professor.”

“Of course,” said Ray. “Come over here and look at this you two.”

“I think you’ve had enough chatting, Ray.”

Ray waved them forward to look at the screen. Brenda glanced at him, then Ingles, then the gun. She stepped forward and looked at the screen. Ray had pulled up the quote, which was indeed by Robert Frost.

“Don’t you see, Brenda?” he asked her. “He’s Santa, he’s Frosty, he’s Snowflake and whatever else takes his fancy. When the cops come and haul me away, you must tell them about this, get the investigation turned in the right direction.”

“Okay, Ray, time to get up and step out to the parking lot.”

“Listen to him, Ray,” Brenda said urgently.

Ray was saddened that he couldn’t even convince Brenda.

“Yes, listen to me,” said Ingles, making circles with the barrel of his gun. Ray stood up, but made no move toward the parking lot. He focused on the gun. He looked from Ingles’ hands to his eyes, and then back to the gun barrel. Nothing else mattered.

“You can give yourself up,” urged Brenda. “You don’t have to let him get any glory. Sure, he’s an asshole, Ray. But don’t give up your life for this.”

“Santa,” said Ray. “What a poor choice of names for you, Ingles.”

Ingles shook his head, as if saddened by Ray’s delusions. He clucked his tongue. “Santa, eh? Interesting handle, Ray. But no one really believes in Santa anymore. No one but you. I doubt if even your kid believes in Santa anymore.”

Ingles gave Ray a look and chuckled. Ray stiffened at the mention of his son and met Ingle’s eyes for a full second. He knew, right then, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that this bastard knew what had happened to his son. Perhaps he had even had a hand in it. Quite possibly, he had enjoyed himself.

His mind went into a small box then. It was a very tight fit, but he could squeeze it all in. It felt good inside this mental box, where thought and speech were unnecessary.

He quickly found that there were peepholes drilled in the walls of his box. They afforded a limited view of the real world. All he saw through those peepholes was Ingles’ eyes, and the gun. The moment Ingles moved his eyes to one side to tap out his cigarette ashes onto Ray’s desk, Ray sprang out of the box and attacked him.

In two steps, he collided with the man. With an insensate howl, he smashed his head and body into him, wanting to hurt him, wanting to do anything he could to him. He felt the man’s nose against his lowered forehead. It crunched, then splattered wetly. The gun popped once, but Ray didn’t feel anything. The bullet may have gotten him, or it may not have. It didn’t matter.

They were on the floor then, scattering computer printouts and rolling, swiveling chairs everywhere. It was an animal fight. They hammered fists, rammed in knees, gouged with stiff fingers. Ray’s ears rang and it felt as if some of his fingers were either missing or simply didn’t work anymore. Then there was an explosion in his ribs and he couldn’t breathe. But he kept on hammering and jabbing with no thought to defending himself. He just wanted to hurt Ingles, the man who had hurt his son.

Brenda screamed at them both. He saw a flash of her as he rolled to the top. He had a sense that he was winning the struggle. Then she brought the paper-cutter down on top of his skull.

The old, green-painted metal instrument had been made in the 60’s. Back then, they had built such things to last, and had used real metal in them. Lots of it. His consciousness imploded. He slid to the floor atop Ingles and it seemed to him that he could feel his mind running out of his ears and onto the dusty lab tiles.

“Thank you, Brenda,” he heard Ingles’ distant voice say. Then the gun popped three times. At least, he thought it was three times. Afterwards, he was never sure.

Then his mind climbed back into that very small box and closed the door behind him. The world vanished entirely.

… 36 Hours and Counting…

Ray’s head felt like a cracked egg. Sticky stuff ran out of his nose, mouth and hair. He couldn’t open his left eye. His right eye opened, but only half-way. The brilliant scene of the lab glared into his brain. He closed his eye again. Just breathing was difficult. He laid there for a time, touching his head, feeling for the wound. A patch of hair and scalp had been removed from the back of his skull.