V. Larson - Spyware

“Okay, I get it, you are an elitist dick,” Ray said, “but I’m done listening. You are going to lead me to my kid. Now.”

“Look Ray,” began Ingles in the slightly patronizing voice that he reserved for students who complained about their poor grades. He put down his tea cup. “Let’s put our cards on the table. Or rather, I will, because you don’t have any.”

Ray breathed deeply, trying to clear the rage from his mind. Ingles simply wouldn’t give up on bantering. Ray believed that if he had simply shot him, the man would still be admonishing him even now.

With a smooth motion, Ray aimed the gun at the TV set and fired. It imploded nicely. Shards of glass and plastic shot out in a flash of sparks. A few of them sprayed far enough to leave glittering chips on the coffee table.

“I always wanted to do that,” Ray said, “and now I know that this thing works.” He leveled the gun on Ingles’ chest again. “Talk,” he repeated.

Ingles didn’t look up, but Ray could tell he was rattled. It felt great to do something the bastard hadn’t calculated an hour ago.

“You are trying to convince me that you will kill me if I don’t help you,” said Ingles. His tone was no longer patronizing, it had shifted into his reasoning, philosophizing mode. “But what if I can’t help you? What if I don’t care about dying? How will that help Justin? Another murder on the list?” he shook his head and took a sip. “No, another murder makes no sense.”

“You’re logic is flawed, Ingles,” said Ray, enjoying the raised eyebrows this evoked, “I didn’t say I would kill you. There are six more bullets in this gun. They will serve to cause a great deal of pain.”

A look of concern crossed Ingles’ features. Ray grinned upon seeing it. Ingles stirred his tea. “Perhaps we could come to some kind of arrangement, then,” he said.

“Yes, certainly. I’d like to know which foot you use the most, Ingles. The right, I believe? I will be kind then, and begin with your left. Please be so good as to place your left foot on the coffee table.”

Ingles made no move to obey. He frowned and seemed to be thinking.

“Here,” said Ray, pulling one of Ingles’ ties from the back of an armchair. He tossed it to Ingles, who finally looked up at him. “You will want that to tie off your ankle. I don’t want you bleeding to death on me. I need you lucid and alive.”

Ingles picked up the tie. He dusted some of the glittering chips of glass from the table. “You are proving to be a poor houseguest, Vance.”

Ray laughed. “You have no idea.”

Ingles cocked his head. Ray had the strange feeling that his soul was being examined. Ray realized right then Ingles was a genius, but it didn’t matter. Ray had the gun, and Ray had nothing left to lose.

“You’ve changed,” said Ingles at last. “I suppose I should have foreseen that.”

“Correct on both counts.”

“I’ll strike a bargain with you, Ray. I don’t know exactly where your son is at the moment, but I can get that information.”

Ray gripped and regripped the pistol. He felt a new tickle of sweat under his arms. “You’re saying that he is definitely alive?”

Ingles looked him in the eye. He inclined his head in a faint nod. Ray couldn’t tell whether or not he was lying.

“You’ve already killed Brenda, so why not Justin?”

“Saying, for an absurd moment, that I was a murderer, what would stop any man from committing more such crimes?” he asked rhetorically. “Bodies. Human bodies are incredibly hard to rid oneself of, Ray. People have buried them, dropped them into rivers, they’ve slathered them in concrete and even fed them into wood-chippers. But they are often unsuccessful in hiding them. Oh, for a few years, perhaps, but not forever. I’m a meticulous man and such loose details would be intolerable.”

“What about Brenda then?”

Ingles snorted. “ You killed Brenda, Ray. And every court and cop in the land knows it by now. Why, you’re brandishing the murder weapon even now! If you hadn’t shot out my set, I could have shown you your own unsmiling, murderer’s face on CNN.”

“How exactly would do you propose to free my son then?”

“I will anonymously e-mail his location to you later today. That will give me time for other… priorities.”

“How can I trust you?”

“You can’t. You can only trust logic, which as you know, I will follow implicitly. It is a trade, Vance. You will take the fall for the virus and Brenda. There’s nothing you can do about that now, anyway. In turn for this service, I will arrange to release your son unharmed.”

“Why would you keep your part of the bargain?”

“As I said, Vance: Bodies. I have no interest in becoming a murderer in the eyes of the state. There is no reason for me to kill your son. Therefore, I won’t do it.”

“So I’m supposed to just give myself up, is that it?”

“Exactly. If you had been caught and put up on charges earlier, your son would have been freed by now.”

Ray and Ingles eyed one another for some time. Finally, Ray shook his head. “If it was anyone else, I might do it,” he said, “but I simply don’t trust you.”

Ingles pursed his lips. He nodded. Moving slowly, he took a last sip from his cup before placing it back on its coaster. Then he removed his left shoe and sock, and placed his bare foot on the coffee table.

“Let’s get on with it, then,” Ingles said, tying his tie around his lower calf.

“You have no better offer?”

“No. As I said, I don’t have the information you request as yet. If you are hell-bent on adding to your list of crimes, I had best cooperate.”

“You think that I’m bluffing, don’t you?”

“I sincerely hope so, but in any case, I have no other options.”

Ray stepped forward and aimed the pistol at his bare foot. He noted that Ingles’ big toe was actually shorter than the next one in line. Some part of his mind wondered vaguely if that particular genetic trait was recessive or dominant.

He moved even closer and sat down on the loveseat opposite Ingles. He placed the muzzle of the pistol within inches of Ingles’ foot. He glanced up and noted that Ingles watched the muzzle too, with the fascination of a petshop rat watching an approaching snake.

Then there was a sound behind him. Before Ray could turn around, someone pushed something cold under his jawbone on the right side of his neck.

“Hold it right there, cowboy,” said a stinking cloud of breath. “I’ve got a hangover, so don’t go and make this my first Murder One.”

Ray froze. “I’ll shoot him,” he said flatly.

“Go ‘head,” chuckled Spurlock. “But you’ll have to take a number, cause old Santa-Frigger here is about to answer to me, too.”

Ray blinked and breathed quickly, his mind freezing over. What should he do?

“Blow a few toes off, if you’re in the mood!” urged Spurlock, ramming the pistol harder into Ray’s throat. “I won’t stop you. But don’t kill him, ‘cause he knows things that both of us want to learn.”

Ray glanced up at Ingles. He still seemed fascinated by the muzzle pressed against his flesh. Ray considered it. This was his chance to hurt this man who had caused him such grief. Quite possibly, he would never get another chance.

The pink bulbs of flesh rested against the muzzle. They seemed so soft against the black metal.

“I’ve already done it, Ray,” said Ingles quietly. “I’ve already sent the e-mail message. However, now that Mr. Spurlock has joined us, I doubt that it will matter.”

Spurlock jostled Ray as he moved to gain a better hold on him. The pistol under his neck slid down to his larynx. The 9mm went off in Ray’s hand. A wet, red spray hit Ingles’ pants.