Spyware

“It’s me,” Spurlock rumbled. His voice was distinctly deep and rough from cigarettes and frequent yelling.

“It’s about time. Did you do it?”

“I planted what you wanted. Give me the number of the locker.”

“There are a few details to discuss. What about the kid?”

“What about him?”

There was a hesitation. Spurlock scowled. He could tell that his evasion wasn’t going to work. This asshole who called himself Santa was sharp, he had to give him that. Santa knew he had taken the kid. He was just pretending that he didn’t to see what he could get out of it. The guys in the joint called it ‘fishing’.

There was a pained tone in the voice now. “Tell me, please, that you didn’t do anything incredibly stupid.”

“Fuck you.”

“Where’s the kid?”

“Where’s my money?

“It’s with the kid,” said Santa.

“Don’t shit me. He’s in the fucking van, alright? He’s fine. Don’t shit me, man. I want my money.”

“Do you realize that you’ve blown everything? Who’s going to believe the plant now that the kid is gone at the same time it appears? You’ve given Vance the shadow of a doubt he needs.”

“The cops don’t know that it wasn’t there all along,” said Spurlock. He had to fight to control his temper. This Santa-bastard wasn’t going to rat-fuck him out of his ten grand. He swore to himself never to work with anyone again that he couldn’t meet face-to-face and lay his hands on.

“True, but I assume that the kid saw what you were doing, didn’t he?”

Spurlock didn’t answer. Instead he growled and punched the rickety gas-price sign that was in reach. It creaked in protest at the abuse.

“Why else would you have grabbed him?” Santa continued.

“He didn’t see me plant it.”

“But he saw and heard enough. The gloves, the thumping of drawers, the rattling of papers. You did wear the gloves as I suggested, didn’t you?”

“No, I’m just an asshole,” Spurlock replied.

“Good. Now, here is what I want you to do: First, you will remove your rear license plate, just in case the child reads it and remembers things well. You will drop the kid off near the highway, under an overpass in a dark and quiet spot and then get back onto the highway going east. You will then pull off the very next exit, replace the license and get back on the highway going back west. When you get to the station in San Francisco, call me and if the kid has been recovered, I’ll give you your money.”

Spurlock was silent for a second. All through the explicit directions, he had been grinding his teeth. This guy always talked to him like he was some kind of overgrown dangerous baby. He took several deep breaths and wished desperately for beer. A twelve-pack of it.

“Look, Santa-frigger, don’t sweat the kid. I’ve got a plan for him. It’s all taken care of. Just give me the locker number.”

“Let him go. I’m not going to be an accessory to any such thing.”

Spurlock shook his head violently. “Can’t you see, man? I can’t do that. He can ID me, sure as shit. I’ve got a contact down in L.A. I’ll take him there and he’ll disappear. End of story.”

“No.”

“What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“I mean: no money.”

Spurlock finally lost it. He dropped the phone, grabbed the gas sign with his left hand and beat the thing with his right, growling while he did it. After several smashing blows, he picked up the trash cell again and pressed his lips to it.

“I say: FUCK YOU, MAN!” he shouted. Then his voice lowered to a growl. “I’m dumping this kid the way I want to, then I’m calling back for the locker number. If you don’t come across, I’ll hunt you down and beat your fat guts in until you shit blood.”

Spurlock closed the phone and climbed back into his van. He could hear the kid, quietly crying in his cage. Maybe he’d heard some of the conversation.

“SHUT UP!” Spurlock roared into the back, just the way his stepdaddy had always done before a beating.

The van’s engine rumbled into life and soon rolled up the onramp.

… 71 Hours and Counting…

It was almost eight o’clock when the fingerprint crew left, taking with them six copies of Justin’s school photos. Sarah went to the bathroom to wash her face. After drying off, she opened up the hamper and felt silent tears run down her cheeks. She ignored them, letting them slide down to her chin and grow cold before they fell and splattered her bare feet.

The bathroom had the classic look of any California tract home from the last century. Wallpaper depicted baskets of unlikely-looking flowers of blue and pink on a background of beige. The chromed towel rack was of the cheap-motel variety, and tended to fall off the wall at inopportune times. There were signs of Justin’s passing everywhere, plainly evident to the trained eye. Sarah noted the splattered droplets of toothpaste on the mirror. Of the four towels in the bathroom, only one of them was in its place, and that one hung oddly, as if it had been grabbed and yanked upon, but not quite firmly enough to pull it down. Two others lay in wads of blue terry cloth on the checkerboard vinyl floor. The fourth she held in her hand.