SPYWARE BOOK (25 page)

“I’m gonna kill that fat bastard!” he screamed at Ingles. “Don’t even get in my way this time!”

Ingles saved his breath for driving. He barely missed a thick black trunk as he swung the Ranger around and popped it into second. They both rammed their heads into the ceiling as he revved it over the uneven ground.

“Get out that popgun of yours,” suggested Ingles.

“I can’t hit anything from a distance,” shouted back Spurlock.

“Just try to nail a tire when we catch up. He can’t outrun us on rough ground.”

Spurlock nodded and rolled down his window. He slipped his pistol into his hand.

Nog surprised them all, however, by pulling a U-turn in the middle of the orchard. He chose a spot for the manuever where three trees were missing. Only dark wounds showed where the trees had been uprooted and removed like rotten teeth. The open sky showed above; a brief streak of bright blue that tore through the otherwise seamless green canopy.

“A storm blew those out last winter,” remarked Ingles unconcernedly, even as he hand-over-hand whipped the steering wheel around and back again. Spurlock frowned at him, unsure how he could be so cool in such a situation.

“He’s trying to get back to the main road, where he can pour it on,” shouted Spurlock.

The chase doubled back to the canal embankment. It was there that Nog made a fatal error. He tried to cut a sharp turn just as he crested the embankment. The car lurched up and veered right, toward the main road, but didn’t make the turn. Instead, it slid sideways toward the canal and over the edge. The big white Lincoln rolled over like a dying whale and crashed down into the slime and filth at the bottom of the concrete walls.

Ingles and Spurlock pulled up in the Ranger and walked to the edge.

“He’s been thrown out and crushed,” said Spurlock, panting, “smashed like a bug under that big boat. Splat! Ha! Ha! Game over, Nog!”

“Should have worn his seatbelt,” commented Ingles. The two of them returned to the idling Ranger and climbed in.

“What now?”asked Spurlock.

“It seems that Nog has mistakenly handed us a golden opportunity.”

“How’s that?”

“He had written a virus, which Vance discovered,” began Ingles with the air of one relating a news story. “Upon being confronted, Nog struck Vance unconscious, taped him up and prepared to flee the area. Unfortunately, he took a bad turn into the canal.”

“What about Vance? He’s probably alive in there.”

“Possibly, but not for long.”

“Are you saying you want me to pop him?” asked Spurlock, hefting his pistol doubtfully.

“No, no. Bullet wounds are too hard to explain. I was thinking of the irrigation of the local fields. If I, or another local grower, were to place an order for water tonight...”

“Ha! He’ll drown in that trunk like a boxed rat!”

“Exactly,” said Ingles. He put the truck in gear and they headed for the main road.

When they reached it and began driving, Spurlock heaved a sigh and began thinking. His head started hurting again, worse than before. Coming down from an adrenalin rush left him low again, lower than ever.

“Shit,” he said, pushing his thumb into him temples, then against his brow.

He glanced over at Ingles. The guy was a cool customer, there was no doubt of it. He was sweating and pale and everytime he worked the clutch pedal with his damaged foot, he winced, but otherwise you would never know the guy was in agony. Spurlock knew from experience that wounds always got worse when they had enough time to swell up and throb.

“Where are we headed now?” Spurlock asked.

“I plan to drop you at the bus station with enough cash to make it out of town.”

Spurlock blinked back his pounding head and tried to think. “Okay, what about my money? Give me the locker number.”

Ingles inclined his head. “Locker number 4393,” he said evenly. He passed over a key with an orange plastic handle on it. Stamped on the key were the digits 4393.

Spurlock looked at it, then slid his eyes back to Ingles. “Where are you headed?”

“The Sacramento airport, of course. Delta flight 953 to Salt Lake City is waiting for me.”

Spurlock nodded. “You’re sure that this key goes to airport lockers in San Fran?”

“American Airlines terminal, lower level,” said Ingles.

“How ‘bout you drop me off in San Fran, and maybe even come in with me to find the locker?”

Ingles shook his head. “Your paranoia is admirable, sir, but I don’t have the time. My flight is leaving. As it is, I need to see a doctor friend about this foot of mine.”

Spurlock looked down at the foot. A thread of dark blood had oozed out of the shoe to stain the truck’s dusty carpet.

“Oh yeah,” he said, “You mean this foot?”Then with a quick motion he reached out and brought his boot heel down on Ingles toes. Or rather, where his toes had been.

Ingles whooped and the car lurched wildly. Spurlock was ready for that. He grabbed the wheel and kept the truck on the road.

He threw the locker key at Ingles and shoved the gun into the man’s cheek. “Why are you trying to fuck me, man?”

Ingles gargled and blinked, still recovering from the shock of pain.

“Why? Huh? What is this, everybody hump Spurlock week?” he demanded. His head throbbed, but the burning almost felt good.

“What is the —” croaked out Ingles.

“What’s the matter?” asked Spurlock, “I’ll tell you what the fucking matter is, you piece of shit! There is no locker 4393 at that airport. I checked ahead of time.”

“How do you know—” began Ingles.

Spurlock rammed the gun harder against the other’s head. Ingles was pushed against the truck’s doorframe.

“Because I called them, you asshole! I wanted to know if you were gonna pull any funny shit. They use a five-digit code, with a letter. Where’s this key from, Ingles? Huh? Tell me, I really want to know.”

Ingles glanced at him over the gun without moving his head. Spurlock saw something in his eyes, something that wasn’t quite right. They had eye contact for only a half-second, but Spurlock knew he was in there, still scheming.

The truck, in the meantime had rolled almost to a halt. Ingles pulled it out of gear to keep the engine from dying. He grimaced as he used his injured foot.

“It’s a locker from a ski resort. Dodge Ridge, I believe. It’s up in the Sierras on highway forty-nine.”

“I don’t give a shit where it is!” roared Spurlock. “Where is my DAMNED MONEY?”

Ingles put the car painfully into gear again, then soon shifted into second. “There isn’t any money.”

It was Spurlock’s turn to register shock. “What?” he laughed in disbelief.

“There never was. I’ve been a bit strapped lately, which is partly why I did this whole operation. Primarily, however, I did it all for love,” Ingles snorted. “I suppose it all seems foolish now. I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

Spurlock’s mouth sagged. “You did it all for love?” he echoed in disbelief. “You’re telling me you’re some kind of college faggot with a thing for some freshman boy you can’t have? What, did you have a boner for Nog? What man? Tell me before I blow you away.”

“I assure you, she was female and quite attractive,” replied Ingles. He shifted smoothly into third.

“Stop the truck, man,” Spurlock ordered.

Ingles shifted into fourth.

“Stop the fucking truck man, before I blow your brains out!”

Ingles floored the truck. The engine revved and whined in protest. He turned to Spurlock. “Jump now, or I’ll kill us both,” he said evenly.

“What?” screamed Spurlock. He grappled the wheel, but he didn’t have the leverage, and Ingles just kept accelerating. He tried to force it out of gear, but without the clutch being in, the transmission held firm. He shoved the gun into Ingles’ face.

“Man, I don’t want to do this,” said Spurlock. Ingles looked at him and then back at the road.

“See that telephone pole down the road?” Ingles asked him coolly. “We’re going to hit that in about thirty seconds.”

Hating himself for it, Spurlock squinted through the windshield. The telephone pole grew perceptibly on the horizon. He glanced at the speedometer. They were pushing ninety. A stop sign came and went in a blur. Someone in another pickup honked at them, but it was only a flash of sound and gone.

“Slow down,” said Spurlock. “I can’t jump at ninety.”

Ingles slowed to fifty, but still the telephone pole continued to loom. “That’s it,” he said flatly. “Jump now or die with me.”

Spurlock looked at him. He meant it, that was clear. He thought of bashing him with the pistol, but the rigid way he held the wheel he could swerve hard and roll them right over.

“You dumb fucker,” he said.

Ingles looked at him, and their eyes met a second time. Both of them knew the truth in that moment.

Spurlock pulled the trigger.

Squirt-squirt-squirt.

. . . 24 Hours and Counting . . .

 At the bottom of a shallow ravine, a great white mechanical whale lay upside down in a patch of crushed sagebrush. The tires were flat and the roof had sunken as if a giant had sat upon it. Silent and unmoving, Nog’s body stretched out from beneath the driver’s side. His black hair fluttered in the breeze that ran down the canal.

 Locked inside the trunk of the car, Ray wondered how hot it would get by noon the next day. It was broiling hot now, and he could tell by the dimming light that leaked through the cracks into his metal tomb that it was evening outside. Soon, it would be dark, and the odds of anyone spotting the wreck would drop to almost nil.

 His chances of getting out by himself he calculated at precisely zero. The car was a new model Lincoln, but still made with real steel, not the flimsy aluminum of most econoboxes that dented when you kneed the door shut. Not only was he locked upside down in a steel box that could have withstood a determined attack with a crowbar, but he was mummified with duct tape. The bastards had taken no chances with him. He could hardly move. He knew he must have looked like a big silver slug, wrapped from head to foot in fresh tape. Parts of him were going numb and he knew he might never feel with those nerves again. Vaguely, he wondered how many rolls it had taken the pricks to cover him.

 Lying there in the darkness, breathing through the slits they had left over his nostrils and mouth, there was a lot of time for thinking. Vance wondered what would get him: would he suffocate first, or die of heatstroke, or possibly dehydration? He recalled the cadet some years back who had been getting a rough hazing and had died in the process, drowning in his own blood because his “buddies” had done a lousy job while gagging him. At least drowning would have been relatively quick.

 He snaked out his tongue to wet and push back the edges of the tape. They had softened and frayed a bit, but it might take a week to lick his way out. This thought made him chuckle, which kicked up dust that had sifted into the trunk. The dust made him sneeze, and he began to choke. He became alarmed, and alarm almost shifted into panic. Breath was life, however slim his odds were now. He fought for calm, and controlled his body by force of will. Two more desperate urges wracked him to sneeze, one after the other, but he resisted. He simply refused to die from such an absurd cause.

 When he had regained his composure he relaxed somewhat. He tried to sleep, figuring he would last longer that way, should he later get lucky enough to be rescued.

 It was there, at the very edge of sleep, that he remembered Justin. He had to make it for his son’s sake. At this point, however, he wondered if his son might have fared better than he had. He hoped so. He held back a sob. His welling tears wet the inside of the tape over his eyes and he passed into a hazy form of sleep.

#

Only two miles away from his trapped father, Justin was hard at work. He had the coffee can in both his grimy hands. He tossed another load of soft sandy earth onto the growing pile as he continued working. The start had been easy, all he had needed to do was roll down the passenger side window. Dirt had flooded in, all but burying Justin and the window handle in the first few seconds. Yelping, he had managed to push enough away to keep lowering the window. The gears and glass squeaked and scraped against the rocks and loose earth. More earth flooded in, but finally he thought he had it open far enough to climb out.

Then he had begun the digging. At first, the shaft held. The walls, although only loosely packed, kept their place against his small, filthy hands. Justin’s seven-year-old mind had no more experience with tunneling than any kid who had dug in the neighborhood sandbox at the park. He knew enough to watch out for cat lumps, and he knew that the further down you dug the wetter and harder the dirt became. But Justin knew nothing of cave-ins. He had no experience with deep holes, ones that require bracing and careful progress.

Already, he was thinking of which toys he would play with first when he got home. Probably his Micro Machines, he figured. He missed them the most. He could have really used a few of them down here to keep him company.

Each coffee-can load of dirt that he scooped up raised his spirits. At first he counted them, but soon he lost track. The mound of earth on the floor of the van just grew and grew. Dirt now filled the front cab area of the van and just kept going.