V. Larson - Spyware

… 2 Hours and Counting…

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.

Ray heard the voice again and it all came back to him. He knew who it was.

He turned to Vasquez like a man coming out of a coma. “That’s him!” he hissed.

“What?”

“The man at the counter. The one being released. That’s him! That’s the third guy!”

She looked at him in a way that he was becoming accustomed to. She looked at him as if he were insane.

“I recognize his voice-his ropy arms with those tattoos. He’s the one who pistol-whipped me and helped wrap me up in tape, I swear it.”

He saw them exchange glances. They both had been looking as defeated as Ray himself. This came as a shock, an unwelcome shock. They had already placed trust in him and looked foolish. They had lost both their cases, largely due to his actions. Now, he was asking them to embarrass themselves further.

Vasquez frowned at the addict. She drew herself up and seemed to sigh. Ray’s eyes lit up, he knew she was going to do something.

Before she could move, however, Verr appeared from nowhere and put a hand on her shoulder. “Tough break in there. I’m sure you’ll get a new assignment soon,” he leered down at her and showed his teeth.

She reached up to throw away his hand, but Johansen beat her to it. Verr’s hand was snapped away and Johansen held his wrist, squeezing it savagely for a moment.

All three of them faced one another in that animal moment, and it was all the time that Ray needed.

Ray launched himself after the addict that headed for the doors and freedom. The whole place went crazy behind him, but he saw nothing except for the addict’s slouched shoulders and the blazing sun outside the glass doors.

How the deputy’s gun came to be in his cuffed hands he was never sure afterwards, but the delightful feeling as he crashed his body into the other man’s back he would never forget. They went down hard together, with Ray on top. He put the gun up under the other man’s throat.

“Stay back! Stay back or I’ll blow his head off!” he shouted to the crowd of milling police. If they simply grabbed him, he knew, his plan was forfeited.

All around him, a loose circle of tense people appeared with guns drawn. He wondered vaguely if any of them had sharp-shooting medals. Perhaps one of them would soon decide to play the hero and shoot the crazy on the floor.

“Ray!” cried a familiar voice. It was Vasquez. “Ray, this won’t work. Let him go.”

He paid no attention. He might die soon, but he hardly cared anymore. His son might be dead. He might be going to jail for a very long time. His wife might even have betrayed him. But he was going to have his say.

“Are you fucking nuts, man?” hissed the addict.

“Yes.”

Ray watched the other’s reaction and enjoyed it.

“Tell me where my son is. Don’t lie-I already know most of it. Tell me or I’ll blow you away right now.”

“You’ll go down for Murder One,” hissed the addict.

“I don’t care.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying, man.”

“You don’t know how much pressure is already on this trigger. I’ve got the safety off and these cops would have already pulled me off if it wasn’t loaded.”

“Fuck you.”

“No, you are the one is going to get fucked, one way or the other. They’ll hold you after this. You know they will. And they will find out who did it when my son’s body is recovered. Murder. That’s what you’ll be up for. Kidnapping, burglary and murder.”

“Spurlock?” asked a voice astonishingly near. Ray jumped, finding that Vasquez had gotten down on her haunches beside the two struggling men.

The addict reacted. His eyes gave him away. He glanced at her, then looked quickly away again. But that moment was enough for Ray. He looked at Vasquez and saw that she had caught the reaction as well. The man was named Spurlock.