Spyware

He felt his skin crawl with the scrutiny of every driver on the narrow two-lane causeway. In his mirrors, every car looked like a black-and-white. It was harder to tell these days, the cops were buying all makes and models it seemed. He’d even seen a Camaro cop car once, down in Modesto. What bastards they were. Who would ever think to slow down because there was a Camaro in your mirror?

He made it to the Milton exit and rolled into a Chevron station. The engine still ran, but it chugged out smoke like a mother. He switched off the ignition.

“You whore,” Spurlock muttered again as he slammed down the stubby, weird-looking hood that vans always had. A blown head gasket, he figured, or a cracked block. Either way, he was through with this thing. Even if he had the money, fixing it would be a real pain. He didn’t have the tools to do it himself and mechanics just might become curious about the kid in the cage.

He thought about hoofing it, right then and there. Sure, after a half-hour or so the kid would get up the balls to beat on the wall of the van. Then, maybe tonight before quitting time, somebody would check it out. By that time he could be over to the bus station and out of this shit-eating burg. Sure, the kid could ID him, but he looked like a thousand other losers in this state, and he knew it.

Although it was no more than eighty degrees, he mopped sweat from his brow. His hand shook while he did it. The flaw with this plan, of course, was that it didn’t get him his money. He hated leaving money behind, especially when he needed it so badly.

He eyed the phone booth at the edge of the gas station’s blacktop. Growling to himself, he walked over to it and dropped a quarter.

This time, the phone picked up right away.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Santa,” he said, “I’m back in town and I’ve got a problem.”

“Did you lose the package yet?”

“Nope, but I’m about to, and I’m about to spill the beans all over the evening news.”

“What are you talking about, are you crazy?”

“No shit. I’m a fucking one-hundred-percent loon, bud,” he said, his voice rising. Santa sounded scared, and that gave Spurlock the first happy feeling in his gut he’d had all day.

“What’s going on?”

“What’s going on, Mr. Cringle sir, is a powerful plowing of your back-forty,” said Spurlock. He began toenjoy himself a bit. “Here’s how it is: I’m fucked, and I’m not going down alone. This thing has gotten too frigging big. I’ve made CNN-FUCKING CNN, MAN-and I never even make the local news. I make it my trademark not to have a trademark, and here you’ve gotten me into something that is completely insane.”

“You won’t give yourself up just to screw me. You don’t even know who I am.”

“Ah, but I’ve got your number, don’t I? And your operating handle.”

Santa chuckled. Spurlock thought that the fucker actually did sound a bit like Santa. “The number is useless. It’s quite untraceable.”

“Bullshit.”

“My technical people are the best,” Santa assured him.

“Are you sure about that? Are you sure that when the crap hits the blades, you won’t be the one chopped into a fine brown spray, my friend? Because, let me tell you, money and fear speak hard words. This case is big, and on TV, and that means the cops will actually give a shit. They’ll be all over you with gangs of feds you’ve never even heard of before.”

“Look, you can have your money, if that’s what this is all about.”

Spurlock smiled, he had him on the run now. It was time to push harder. “I NEED MORE THAN THAT NOW!” he screamed into the receiver, not finding it difficult to flash into a rage. What was difficult at this point was controlling himself at all.

“What do you need?” asked Santa cautiously.

Spurlock smiled more broadly, and his headache eased a bit. He was able to open his right eye now. Not all the way, but it was a start.

He told Santa what he wanted for Christmas.

… 48 Hours and Counting…

Like so many before him on stake-out duty, Ray found himself nodding off when the moment finally came. He had had little sleep for the last three days, and it was catching up with him. His eyes closed, then opened, blinking, then closed again. Half-aware, he watched as another user logged on, Turtledove, this time. Then another, Vader was the handle. Vader logged off and Turtledove struck up a conversation with Whiskeydick, who seemed to have no life other than to chat-up anyone on this popular board.

After Whiskeydick and Turtledove got into an argument and broke it off when someone called Snowflake came onto the scene. It was a new user: ‘noob’ said the status line, rudely. Ray looked at the screen with one, half-open eye. His arms were crossed over his chest and he had sagged down into his chair. He wondered vaguely as he dozed if he was indistinguishable from the homeless crowd in the carrels.