SPYWARE BOOK Read online

  “But that’s not all, Ray. There was an emergency call from our house. A 9-1-1 call, right about when he would have made it home. The police responded but found no one there, nothing wrong, except that a back window was open and the screen was off.”

  “The one he likes to climb into?”

  “Right.”

  “Who made the call?”

  “They don’t know, the caller said nothing. They got the address from the computer and checked it out and called me.”

  Ray looked up from the phone to the others in the room, who were all watching him.

  “I’ve got to go home,” he said.

  . . . 76 Hours and Counting . . .

  “What did she say, Ray?” asked Brenda. “Is there any word about Justin?”

  Ray shook his head. He sank down into his chair. An overwhelming rush of emotions flooded over him. Moments ago, he had just been tired and beleaguered, faced with at worst a threat to his career. Now his son was gone. Perhaps forever. He thought of his boy’s mischievous smile. Was he dead right now? Was he somewhere screaming for his daddy?

  “...Dr. Vance. Dr. Vance?” repeated Vasquez.

  Ray looked up vaguely. He shook his head and blinked rapidly. He had to think, to act. If his son was in trouble, he had to move fast if he was to help. He had to search while the trail was hot. Somehow he never really tried to deny that his son was gone. He simply skipped over denial entirely and went right on into shock, fear and anger. Today had been so bad already that he was more than ready to believe anything.

  “You must allow me to leave. Am I under arrest? Are you charging me with anything?”

  “No,” said Vasquez. “Not yet. But we have the right to conduct an investigation—”

  “Fuck your investigation,” said Ray calmly. “If you want me to confess right now to anything, I will, if you will let me go after my son.”

  This was the first statement that seemed to surprise them. Vasquez’s eyebrows shot up, and even Johansen looked quizzical. She motioned Johansen into the hall. The door swung shut behind them. “Give us one minute, Dr. Vance.”

  Ray stood up and paced. He could see them through the glass and the mini-blinds. The conversation seemed intense. They were arguing quietly.

  “They have to let you go, don’t they?” asked Brenda. “The bastards.”

  Ray shushed her with a gesture and moved to the door. It wasn’t quite latched. He strained to hear them.

  He heard Johansen’s rumbling voice. “...bullshit. It’s all part of the scheme...”

  “No ...” responded Vasquez. “...doesn’t feel right...” she said. He couldn’t make out the rest.

  Johansen had his back to him. He had a wild thought about slamming into the stocky agent and making a break for it. Vasquez gave him pause, though. He felt sure that she had a gun on her and that she would not hesitate to shoot him. In the leg, maybe. Then what good would he be to Justin?

  Instead, he pulled the door open and leaned out. “Well?”

  They looked at him. It was good to see them look a bit ruffled.

  Vasquez pulled out her cell phone. Her finger moved on the keypad and the phone beeped in response. She turned away and seemed to speak to several people in rapid succession. Ray fidgeted with impatience. His fingers rubbed against each other nervously and his burning eyes blinked rapidly. He noticed that Johansen was watching him closely. The man looked pissed-off, but Ray was too distracted now to care.

  Vasquez turned around. “I checked out your story. There was a 9-1-1 call and your son has been reported missing. Under the circumstances, I’ve decided not to formally charge you at this time. You are a suspect, however, in a federal felony—Dr. Vance?”

  But she was talking to his back. Ray and Brenda were headed out into the main hall at a trot. When he got out into the open hall, Ray began to run for side doors that let out onto the parking lot.

  Behind him Vasquez was shouting. “Don’t leave the area, Dr. Vance. We will be in touch with you soon.”

  “What’s wrong Dr. Vance?” asked a thin female student as he rounded a corner, grabbing the walls for support as he went. He recalled vaguely that her name was Valerie-something. He ignored her and charged the doors. He straight-armed the panic bar and burst out into the sunlight.

  Ray reached his car and for an awful moment he thought that he had left his keys behind, or worse, that he had lost them. Then the bulge in his back pocket that his fumbling hands had missed the first time was out and a bright key flashed in the sun. He shoved the key into the lock and all but twisted it off getting the door open.

  “Good luck, Ray!” shouted Brenda from the steps. Ray realized that she must have run after him. She said something else, but the engine of his Ford Taurus was roaring now as he backed out and threw the transmission into drive. She waved and he raised a hand back to her.

  As he headed out of the parking lot, skirting a slow car and jumping a curb in the process, he realized that Brenda had shining tears on her cheeks again. Crying and running again. Twice in one day, and he had never seen her do either before.

  . . . 75 Hours and Counting . . .

  The trip home was hellish. Traffic had never been more frustrating. He wanted to break all the rules and he did break most of them. He drove around cars that were stopped at lights in order to run a red. Twice he jumped the curb so that two wheels were on the sidewalk briefly. His tires squealed at every corner. Fortunately, he had never wanted a long commute and the way home was not heavily-traveled at this time of day. Still, even the slightest delay all but drove him mad. He sat hunched over the wheel, sweating, shouting and beating at the wheel. His thumb was sore from pressing relentlessly on the horn button, using far more pressure than was required.

  He drove at the limits of safety and just beyond, moving fast and illegally, skirting every delay, but not quite recklessly enough to get himself hit. Fortunately, there were no cops on the route to stop him. If there had been, he wondered what he would have done.

  When he came skidding around the corner, he was disturbed to see only one cop car out in front of the house. Didn’t they care more than that? Vaguely, it occurred to him that most of the police should be out cruising around looking for signs of Justin, but somehow he wanted more response than this.

  He jumped the curb and stopped the car on the lawn, heedless of the black swathes he cut in his well--groomed grass. The door opened as he got to the steps.

  “Ray!” said Sarah, reaching out for him. He hugged her and bent down over her small body, pressing it up against him. He didn’t ask if they had found Justin yet. It was obvious that they hadn’t. He knew she didn’t want to say anything. It was a connection the two of them had always had, knowing when the other wanted to talk and when all that was needed was a hug or a light, supportive touch.

  A black man in a clean-cut, but not expensive, brown sports jacket followed Sarah out of the house more slowly. He had a notepad and a pen in his hand, reminding Ray of the FBI agents back at the university. He hoped the man wasn’t FBI. He had had quite enough of them already today.

  The man nodded to Ray. “Afternoon, Dr. Vance. I’m Detective Waterson.”

  Ray put his chin down on Sarah’s head. He smelled her perfume. It brought back a flash of good memories. Then he looked up and faced the Detective.

  “Have you turned up anything?”

  “No sir, but we are searching and we are hopeful. Oftentimes these things turn out to be nothing more than a misunderstanding. Can I ask you some questions?”

  Ray smiled weakly. He had been questioned to death by people in suits all day. “Shoot.”

  Waterson nodded. “We’ve already talked to the teachers and staff at the school where he was last seen. Apparently, no one noticed anything out of the ordinary. You were the one to drop him off this morning, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “You haven’t seen him since?”

  “No.”

  “Did he seem upset?”

&nbs
p; “Only about his shoes,” said Ray. Suddenly, his voice choked up.

  “What? His shoes?”

  Ray shook his head, unable to answer for a moment. Sarah’s arms squeezed him around the middle, feeling his emotion.

  “He never likes to put on his shoes in the morning. It’s a ritual battle we have to fight every day.”

  Waterson frowned and made a note. “I see.”

  Ray realized that Waterson probably didn’t have kids, and that he didn’t see at all. Why would the police have someone without kids on this case? It seemed wrong somehow. Everything seemed wrong today.

  “Did you punish him this morning, or last night? Is there any reason that he might run away?”

  Ray shook his head. “No special reason. Do you think he might have?”

  Waterson shrugged. “It’s hard to say. It’s rare for a six-year-old to take off on his own for long, but not unheard of. Dr. Vance, you were the one who was supposed to pick him up, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, but... I was detained. He’s supposed to go next door if I’m not back from the university yet. We have an arrangement.”

  “With the Trumbles, yes, I understand that. Do you have any relatives or friends who might have picked him up since there was no one home to meet him?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Look, I think I should be out looking for him instead of answering all these questions. If we knew anything, then we would be trying these possibilities.”

  “In times of stress, Dr. Vance, we sometimes forget or overlook things. It’s my job to make sure that we cover everything.”

  “But I should be out looking for him.”

  Detective Waterson looked at him. “Where would you look, Dr. Vance?”

  Ray opened his mouth and blinked. He realized he didn’t know where to start. He thought of the park and the school grounds, but that was no good if he had been kidnapped. He thought of all the highways and houses and orchards and quiet fields in the area. Where would he begin? Was Justin tied up and on his way to L.A.? Was he somewhere in the central valley right now? It was maddening to think that if he only knew exactly where his son was right then, he could go and get him. For the lack of that single fact, he was helpless.

  He dropped his chin down again to rest atop Sarah’s fresh-smelling hair. He closed his eyes and tried not to cry himself.

  . . . 74 Hours and Counting . . .

  Justin reached out a shaky hand and grabbed the thin steel bars of the cage. They were almost too thin to call bars, but were definitely too thick to call wire, because they wouldn’t bend. They looked about like the bars of a shopping cart, all shiny and crisscrossed in small squares.

  The Van Man had told him not to mess with the cage—well, actually, the man had used the F-word, but Justin avoided even thinking that bad word. Mom always said that bad things happened to boys with dirty mouths, and he certainly didn’t need any more bad things to happen to him now. He dared to touch the bars now because he figured there was no way that the van man could see him.

  The inside of the van was gross. Dirt and grease caked everything. The torn-up parts of what looked like a motorcycle lay everywhere on the scratched metal floor. Coffee-cans overflowed with cigarette butts and the whole place stank of sweat and pee.

  Justin strained to see the Van Man. He was up there, past a short dirty curtain that swayed and fluttered in the breeze that came in from the open driver side window. Occasionally, when the curtain flapped the right way, Justin could see the Van Man’s head and shoulders. He was smoking again. He seemed to smoke continuously. Through the dirty windshield, Justin could just make out that they were on the highway. From the roar of the engine and road noises, he could have figured out that much anyway.

  Justin looked around his cage speculatively. It was welded to the side of the van so that only three sides were actually barred. The top opened, he knew that because that’s how the Van Man had shoved him down into it.

  Looking at the cage, Justin thought of a story his father had told him about a chimpanzee in a cage. A group of pyscho-ologists (as his father had called them) had specially built the cage with sixteen ways to escape, depending on what the chimp did. There were blocks to stack, ropes to climb and pull, all sorts of things. All the psycho-ologists had watched closely with a TV camera, and the chimp had indeed escaped, but he had used the seventeenth way, the way that none of them had even thought of.

  Justin grabbed the shiny bars and gave them a shake. He needed just one way out of this cage.

  The van slowed. Justin lurched against the bars as it made a sweeping turn. He knew that feeling, the van was exiting the highway. Justin huddled back against the wheel well that served as a bench in the makeshift cage. His eyes grew wide with terror. Somehow, the Van Man must have seen him shake the cage. He clasped his hands together, stuck them between his knees and squeezed them tightly. He sucked at his lower lip and shivered, even though it was very hot in the sun-baked van.

  . . . 73 Hours and Counting . . .

  Casey Spurlock swung off I-80 and pulled the van to a stop at a Circle-K convenience store in Fairfield. After checking the kid, who looked scared enough to piss himself, he dug out one of those prepaid cell phones he had lifted and stockpiled for just this occasion. These phones had only so many minutes on them, and you had to buy more minutes on cards to use them again. This was a perfect arrangement for Spurlock, who wasn’t exactly a ‘resident’ who paid ‘bills’. As an added benefit, the phones were cheap, disposable and pretty much untraceable as long as you kept getting new ones. He bought minutes at the counter in the convenience store, the smallest denomination possible, then headed out into the parking lot to make his call.

  He had picked this store because the area was noisy. If the kid tried something, it would be unlikely that anyone would hear. Soon though, he would have to tie him up and gag him. He couldn’t very well make it through a fast-food drive-thru if the kid took to screaming in the back.

  Spurlock dug the cheap plastic phone out of that infernal plastic that things came wrapped up in these days. He knew they wrapped them up so tightly to make it harder to steal stuff. Didn’t anyone trust anyone anymore? He noticed that his hand shook as he cut the plastic with a jack knife. It was just a slight tremor, but he knew what it meant. He needed to find the cure for it soon, and that meant money. Lots of money. Otherwise the headaches would start, and then maybe he would get the shits. He needed his money now.

  Spurlock dug a quarter out of his filthy jeans and scratched at the phone card to reveal the pin number. The phone clicked and droned obediently. He typed a stream of digits into the phone, he forgot the area code the first time, cursed, then got it right the second time.

  The phone rang six times before it was picked up. He wanted to throw it into the street. He hated waiting for bullshit stuff like answering machines and lame housewives who didn’t know when their husbands would be home.

  “Hello?” came the voice.

  “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.”